


Little Things

by JKL_FFF



Category: Gravity Falls, ParaNorman (2012), Parapines - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, College, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Ghosts, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Medical School, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Parapines, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Period-Typical Homophobia, Roommates, Voyeurism, jiang shi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 17:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20139499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JKL_FFF/pseuds/JKL_FFF
Summary: Dipper, while at college, becomes obsessed with unraveling the mystery of the Ghost haunting his dorm(which leads to helping a student with certain vital disabilities becomethe first … and only … member of their family who will ever graduate).But Dipper also becomes obsessed with unraveling the mystery of his own sexuality(which he does with his usual amount of grace and tact and general lack of awkwardness …meaning, he does it with absolutely *no* grace or tact, and with loads of awkwardness).Can Dipper remove his own head from his own ass in time to save a friendship?Can he be bold and brave enough to experiment (for SCIENCE!),even though the findings might challenge everything he once believed about himself?Spoiler Alert: Yes. Yes!!! YEEESSSSSS!!!!!!!!!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, this has nothing to do with TaSO (or ALaW or MitD); I don't imagine it transpiring in the same alternate universe that those three connected stories do, but in an *alternate* alternate universe. It was written for a prompt challenge, with the prompt being "college roommate AU with sexuality discovering and awkward first time".
> 
> Incidentally, additional prompts are always welcome!

It’s the little things which are often the most important.

Take Dorm H, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy could see that it was haunted. It was a matter of university lore, for one thing, that someone had once died on the premises and that their ghost would regularly be sighted throughout the building. It was even a common prank (practically an institutional tradition, really) among the various fraternities to spraypaint “aunted” outside the building’s entrance (turning “Dorm H” to “Dorm Haunted”) and set up Halloween decorations around it; the more ambitious frat boys had even been known to sneak in and impersonate the ghost—scaring students with a reputation for being especially jumpy. Frat boys are widely known for their subtle wit, after all.

But Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy. Quite the opposite, and he prided himself on that. He could see patterns form from little things. Like that the ghost had been a young man from a long past decade (probably the 20s or 30s, given how witnesses described his clothes), and in a poor pecuniary state (also given how witnesses described his clothes). And of course it was obvious the ghost had been a very dedicated student, because he was most frequently sighted in the common room on the top floor, hunched over at the furthest table, with his back to the door. A remote location, Dipper deduced, one which would be rarely disturbed by the many comings and goings and not-studyings of other students even if the room _hadn’t_ _had_ a reputation for being haunted. Plus, hunched over and with his back to the door? Classic position of a man trying to ignore everything but his studies.

What’s more, as Dipper recorded in the journal he kept for his personal investigations—not his class notes, but his secret, paranormal investigatory casework—two weeks after the semester started, “Ghost has determinedly resisted all our attempts to contact and/or summon. Tried for third time tonight, but ouija said ‘Leave me alone. I have homework to finish.’ Who does homework on Friday night? Nerds. Ghost is studious nerd, as I had suspected. Mabel said ‘Takes one to know one’ but I’m ignoring her. Not inviting her to next séance—she brought heart-shaped candles. Pink ones. Ugh. I wouldn’t show up at a séance like that either.”

Less obvious, however, was who the ghost had been and what he had been a student of—or, more accurately, what the ghost was still trying to study from beyond the grave—and that one took Dipper more than just a few witnesses’ accounts to piece together. Even his extracurricular research through the archives of the university newspaper revealed nothing of use; there was no mention of a student dying on campus. But, as Dipper wrote in his journal, “Hardly surprising. The powers-that-were wouldn’t want news of a death getting out. Might’ve caused a drop in tuitions and their fat cut. Conspiracy much? Duh. When is it not a conspiracy?”

Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy would have given up and moved on to “something more important” after that dead end, but he was most decidedly NOT one of those (and thank the gods for that!). Instead, he decided to widen his focus to general observations of what occurred in Dorm H—to the odd and seemingly inexplicable little things that occurred every now and then. This would, he reasoned, reveal the ghost’s MO; and if he figured that out, he would be a step closer to knowing the truth of who the ghost was.

Eventually, he noticed two patterns coalesce out of them:

The first was that booze was not welcome in Dorm H. This had nothing to do with the university policy which forbade any alcohol anywhere on campus, nor the official rule which forbade any alcohol anywhere in Dorm H (because of the many students under the age of 21); this was a statement of objective reality. Many (both over and underage) regularly tried to violate the official prohibition, but any booze they brought into Dorm H had a peculiar habit of … somehow not being drunk. People would trip while furtively bootlegging drinks inside, or stumble while carrying them up the stairs or down the halls, or their fingers would just slip; sometimes, people would get their drinks to their rooms and set them triumphantly upon some piece of furniture … just before that piece of furniture (apparently more rickety than anyone would have suspected) buckled under their weight, or chairs and beds—which anyone would have sworn were sturdy—would collapse under the combined weight of a student *and* a drink; those who actually managed to imbibe would find they apparently couldn’t handle as much as anyone would have thought, for a few swallows would usually be enough to rob them of their grip, or skew their perspective when reaching for or passing one, or make them tipsy enough to fall right into everything; more often than not, though, the Dorm Super would be tipped off of rule-breaking (though everyone asked always swore they’d never squeal on another student), confiscate the alcohol, and slap a bunch of fines on the students involved …

But one way or another, most of the booze which crossed the threshold of Dorm H wound up on the floor—spilled or tipped over or dropped. Lids popped off of containers more easily than anyone would have imagined, cans sprayed more explosively than anyone would have believed possible, and bottles shattered more brittly than anyone would have expected … Anyone except Dipper, that is. The knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boys might have written it off and gone on to party elsewhere (and good riddance!), but Dipper was actually thinking about more than just beer and boobies. No, this was too regular for it to just be bad luck, faulty craftsmanship, clumsiness, or overly-attentive supervision. This was a supernatural effort to keep alcohol out of Dorm H—he was sure of it.

“One story is clear evidence,” he recorded immediately after coming to this conclusion. “A Super once hosted a get-together on Halloween (idiot) for his frat (idiots plural) in basement. Brought in a whole cooler of beer. Then it got icy cold, the lights started flickering on and off, *the whole cooler was thrown against the wall*, and a voice started shrieking ‘Get out! Get out!’ Must be drinks made it go full poltergeist, because nondrinking parties don’t seem to trigger it, and I’ve been down to basement on my own without any PN activity; EMF read 2 above normal, nothing else. Others have done the same for thrill (idiots plural), but little reported PN activity (independent—if idiotic—confirmation)…

“Need experiment to prove hypothesis … And got it! I smuggled my own beer into here! Just closed window, opened it, and set it on top of wardrobe (flat) in middle so nothing can HOLY CRAP IT JUST TIPPED OVER ON ITS OWN AND ROLLED OFF THE TOP! I GOTTA CALL MABEL! … Mabel thinks the ghost is a Revenuer since he’s apparently from the Prohibition era, hates alcohol, but I don’t. If one had died on campus, the powers-that-were couldn’t cover *that* up. Maybe the ghost is mormon, or 7th day adventist, or jehovah’s witness? Okay, not jw—internet says they drink … Mabel won’t stop asking how I got a beer since I don’t talk to anyone outside of class or know anyone cool. Well, I do SO know cool people! Lots, okay Mabel?! Turning off my phone now …”

The second pattern Dipper noticed was not exactly that certain things went missing (because Dorm H was not immune to petty theft; no university dormitory is), but rather that certain things *always turned back up*. Where money, food, electronics, clothes, and all types of different knickknacks occasionally vanished forever, notebooks and textbooks almost never did. That isn’t to say that they never vanished at all (on the contrary, they regularly did vanish from their owners’ keeping—Dipper wouldn’t have begun this line of inquiry to start with if he hadn’t heard *three* other students talking about how it had happened to all of them), but they almost always turned up in the Lost & Found the next day. What’s more, they turned up without ever having been handed over to a Dorm Super. When Dipper started tallying up the subjects which (almost invariably) turned up after a student reported them missing, but which the Dorm Super could never remember receiving, it revealed they were always medical notebooks and textbooks. *Always*. Dipper even found out from their rightful owners that the books often had dogears, bookmarks, or notes scribbled in margins which hadn’t been there before. His deduction from this was obvious: the ghost had been (or, from a different existential point of view, still was) a medical student.

But the oddest thing of all (and one which Dipper would have totally missed had he not made a matinal habit of tallying the books which turned up in the Lost & Found every morning) was that one day, and all of a sudden, medical notebooks and textbooks *stopped* vanishing … When Mabel asked her brother if this meant the ghost was gone, he replied he didn’t believe so; alcohol was still unwelcome, there had been a sighting the night after books stopped vanishing, the EMF still registered a minimum 1 above normal (sometimes more) all throughout Dorm H, and Dipper still had that feeling in his gut that there was something paranormal going on there—all strong indications the ghost hadn’t gone anywhere.

After some consideration, Mabel decided, “Well then, I got one little question for you, Bro-Bro: What’s different? What’s changed in Dorm H?”

“… Dunno …” Dipper had to admit. But even after they ended their cross-campus call, the question nagged at him. Something *had* to be different. Why else would the ghost change his MO? It might be something little, true, but ... what? The only thing that Dipper could think of was that a new kid had recently transferred to Dorm H—to a room just down the hall from his, no less. But what difference could another idiot, teenage, college boy (probably only interested in beer and boobies and being another knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy, just like all the rest—Gods, they were so infuriatingly moronic!) in a building full of idiot, teenage, college boys make to a ghost? What difference could he make to Dipper, or to anyone at all?

Still, not having anything else to go on as a lead, with cap humbly in hand, Dipper fed the Dorm Super a story about having forgotten that kid’s name even though they had a class together and had already met and it would be super awkward if he had to admit he’d already forgotten that kid’s name (“So if it’s not too much trouble, could you please just tell me the name of that new kid who moved in last week to room … oh, which was it? It’s just down the hall from mine, and it’s right on the tip of my tongue …”). Thus, he learned that the kid—another first-semester freshman, just like Dipper himself—was named Norman Babcock.

“Norman Babcock, eh?” Dipper repeated, committing it to memory. “And why’d he get transferred to Dorm H so late? Classes have already been going for like a month.”

The Dorm Super shrugged. “He was in Dorm G, but he requested to be moved here.”

“Requested?” Dipper fingered the cap in his hands thoughtfully. “Like, specifically?”

“I guess. Don’t really know. Maybe he heard ‘bout our world-famous, five-star ambience, and just couldn’t stay away.”

Taken aback, Dipper asked, “You mean that the building’s haunted?”

“What am I, his biographer? You wanna know? Go ask him yourself. Make a friend. Now, you wanna know which books turned up in the Lost & Found last night, or what?”

“Oh, right … Sure, might as well. Thanks.”

****

It’s the little things which reveal the truth of a matter.

Take Norman Babcock, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy could tell you he took some bizarre interest in the macabre. He was a loner who liked to hang out in the most notoriously haunted rooms of Dorm H (and would even talk about “the sweet smell of death” in them, or would offer to forecast how the lives of any other people present in them would end, until he could hang out in them *alone*); his half of his room was decorated with paraphernalia from classic horror flicks or novels; and though he wore no goth accoutrements (usually just a t-shirt with grim art from one of those classic horror flicks or novels, jeans, and a well-loved red hoodie), he basically looked more like a modern-day vampire than most goths—pale skin somewhere between fair and pallid, fine features, a very tall, skinny, and lanky body, and dark hair that stood straight up without the aid of any product or styling. Add to this his tendency to sleep through the afternoons and be active at night (even going for a “morning jog” when most people were bedding down), and it was little wonder why the university rumor mill ground out stories like: he actually *was* a modern-day vampire, or a real warlock (or “wiccan”, as the various PC groups insisted on saying) who was planning to summon the ghost of Dorm H to help him cheat on exams, or he hung out in cemeteries and wrote creepy poetry about people he had killed or would kill in the near future … because he was a serial killer apparently? Frat boys aren’t known for being sensible or logical or cohesive of useful at all in any way to anyone.

But Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy (as he would often and loudly tell anyone who would listen … and even some people who would not). He did not take things at face value nor put stock in unsubstantiated rumors; no, Dipper Pines was a “man” (because “18 is old enough to be considered a man, damn it!”) who would go out and substantiate the hell out of those rumors himself, damn it (because “SCIENCE, DAMN IT!”)! Half a day’s worth of observations was enough to disprove the vampire rumor, though, when Norman Babcock walked unflinchingly through direct sunlight and ate garlic-heavy Italian food from the cafeteria without the slightest hint of anaphylaxis. Two days’ worth disproved the warlock/wiccan rumor, because Dipper didn’t find a single grimoire, tome, or scroll—not even a freakin’ phylactery—among Norman Babcock’s possessions when he lockpicked his way into his room and searched it … nor were there any magically-charged amulets, totems, or charms (no warlock/witch/wiccan would go anywhere at all without those—they protected them from the Holy Order of the Soothslayers, an ancient order of jingoistic jerks who hated all warlocks/witches/wiccans irrationally). Plus, not once did Norman Babcock vociferate rhyming couplets at the top of his lungs (the telltale giveaway of a magical incantation to do … anything at all, really), and Dipper figured there’d be at least *one* rumor about that if he truly was a warlock/wiccan; oddly enough, though, on occasion Norman Babcock *did* speak to himself, but always at a normal pitch and as if having a genial conversation with someone not physically present—like a phone call, except without any activated telephonic devices whatsoever.

As to hanging out in cemeteries and writing down things … that proved to be true. However, a second round of lockpicking and searching (this time through Norman Babcock’s own personal journal—the one in which he wrote while in the cemeteries) revealed not poetry, but what Dipper thought more closely resembled the notes a therapist would write for patients. What’s more, the names heading the most recent sections matched those on the tombstones near which Norman Babcock would sit during his periodic visits of the nearby cemeteries. So he probably wasn’t a serial killer, Dipper decided, and was like 86.9% sure of that. Not unless he had been around to kill the people buried at those plots (such as Frank Sanchez in 1976 or Evangeline Winters in 1983).

When Dipper sat down for coffee with Mabel to recount this and ask her interpretation, she was stumped. Or probably was, as instead of offering any helpful suggestions, she snorted, “Bro-Bro, are you stalking people again?”

“Absolutely not. I’m *investigating* a possible paranormal lead. There’s a difference.”

“Like the time you stalked Jessica O’Malley?”

“I thought she might be a skinwalker. Turned out she was just wearing a costume to scare people into selling their property to her for cheap so she could claim the pirate gold hidden on their land.”

“Jinkies.”

“… What? ‘Jinkies’? What is that—some kinda breakfast cereal?”

“It’s what all the cool kids are saying these days, Dip-Dop. Which you’d know if you were cool, which you’d be if you hung out with people outside of class instead of stalking them. Anyway, who is this person you’re stalking, again?”

“I’m *investigating* a freshman named Norman Babcock,” Dipper replied emphatically.

Mabel shrugged. “Don’t think I know him—probably not taking any art classes … Is he at least cute?”

“… What does that have to do anything?”

“Hey, if we’re gonna gossip about boys, it might as well be about cute boys.”

“We aren’t *gossiping*, and I don’t care that he’s cute.”

“Oh ho! So you *do* think he’s cute!” Mabel said triumphantly.

Impatient, Dipper huffed and looked away. He also flushed a little … with impatience, of course. “He’s studying psychology, for the record. He’s tall and thin and pale. Looks kinda like a vampire. Blue eyes. Dark hair that sticks up, like whoosh. Always wears a red hoodie. I guess people who don’t have better things to think about *might* say he’s cute by objective measures. Again, not that *I* care who’s cute. Especially if they’re a guy. Got better things to think about.”

“Wait wait wait … wait … wait wait …” Mabel said slowly. “Wait … Are you talking about the Coffee-Bomb Kid?”

“Who?”

“From the internet! That video that’s gone viral on the campus facebook page!”

“I don’t follow that, Mabel. I don’t care about sports events or dances or whatever.”

Shocked and aghast, his sister immediately extracted her phone from her purse and began searching through her history. “It happened like … a week ago, I think? Everyone’s been talking about it on campus—so he’s not just internet famous, or anything. He’s got like real notoriety and even respect for it. I can’t believe you don’t know what I’m talking about!”

“I don’t see why. You should have plenty of practice by now,” her brother quipped.

A second later, though, he was watching a video entitled “He Ain’t Scared of No Ghost”. It appeared to have been taken using a hidden camera up in the common room on the top floor of Dorm H, for it depicted Norman Babcock seated at the table furthest from the door, amidst notes and textbooks. For a few moments, it simply showed him reading the book in front of him, occasionally referencing those to the right or the left—flipping through their pages in search of whatever he needed to learn—and periodically reaching across the table with his left hand to absently turn the page of another textbook. Every now and then, he’d take a sip from his cup of steaming hot Starstags coffee. And then, while he continued to do this, the lights flickered. Again and again … and again. Then, unbelievably, a heavy mist began to creep in through the doorway. Suddenly, the lights went off entirely for an instant, and when they came back on, there was a gray young man in ripped and faded clothes standing in the doorway, staring crookedly at Norman Babcock.

Dipper startled. “Jumping Jesus on a pogostick!”

“It gets better!” Mabel assured him gleefully.

Norman Babcock glanced up, then took a long, cool look at the gray young man. “Well, the fog machine’s a nice touch, and kudos to your makeup artist, but could you leave the lights alone please? People are trying to study here.” The gray young man’s only reply was to produce a red-stained knife. Norman Babcock made a face, “A little much. Plus, you could get in serious trouble carrying that, what with the school’s ‘Zero Tolerance’ poli—” All of a sudden, the gray young man bore down inexorably on him with the red-stained knife brandished high!

“Bouncing Buddha on a trampoline!”

“Just wait!”

Norman Babcock betrayed only the faintest of flinches, and then (in one smooth motion) he scooped up his coffee cup and hurled it straight at the gray young man! A spaz of motion followed in an attempt to block the coffee, but it only caused the cup to burst in the gray young man’s face! He was enveloped in a cloud of brown and steam! Then the shrieks: “It scalds! Ahh! It scalds!” But Norman Babcock only returned to his reading with a shrug and a laconic, “Hey, we all got problems; I just ran out of coffee—but you don’t hear me whining about it.” He acted entirely unconcerned when the gray young man fled, or when a bunch of frat boys flooded in (whooping and hollering about how “awesome that was, brah!”) to retrieve the camera and offer him a beer … a beer which was almost immediately tipped to the floor (no one seemed to notice in the knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy confusion except Norman Babcock, though)—in fact, his only response was to tell them all he had to study for a quiz the next day and to please go away. And that appeared to be that, for the video ended.

Dipper shook his head in astonishment. “Vaulting Vishnu on a springboard …”

“I know, right?” Mabel concurred with a laugh. “So is that the guy you’re stalking?”

“That’s him …” Dipper affirmed absently as he scrolled back to the beginning. “You mind if I watch this again?”

“Why? What’s caught your interest, Bro-Bro?”

But he didn’t respond until the end of the video, after he had confirmed his suspicions. “Three things. The first is this book across the table from him.” He showed her a paused image. “It’s too far away for him to read it, plus it’s facing away from him. He doesn’t even look at it. So why does he turn its page *three times* at regular intervals? And the second is the beer; watch it closely, Mabel. Who knocks it over?”

She focused on the bottle in the video, and then her eyes widened in realization. “Wha?! Nobody knocks it over! It just falls over—like the one you snuck into your room!”

“So the ghost is there for that. Why not sooner, too? Why not … reading *this* book? And he does say ‘people are trying to study’, which suggests plural—*more than one person*.”

Mabel nodded slowly. “That’d explain why the textbooks stopped disappearing, huh? This guy supplies them, so he doesn’t have to ‘borrow’ them from others. But how’s he know when to turn the page? You think you can hear him—like a real psychic? That’d be so cool!”

Dipper allowed that it was possible, even if he was skeptical. Later that night, as he lay in bed unable to sleep, he decided to replay the video. He had to admit it was impressive how brave Norman Babcock had been … rather cool, too … On a whim, Dipper decided to google him (maybe find and scroll through his facebook page), but found much, much more than expected. For one thing, Norman Babcock was repeatedly credited as a “consulting expert” by the show “Ghost Harassers”. Even its two cheap knock-offs (“Ghost Hasslers” and “Ghost Wrasslers”) and one serious British spin-off (also called “Ghost Harassers”, but pronounced more Britishly) gave him “special thanks” in more than a few episodes. Dipper couldn’t help but wonder why—if it truly was the same Norman Babcock—these serious (and otherwise) spectral investigators would credit some 18-year-old college freshman.

But all of these official websites had a link to the same blog (called “True Ghost Stories”) It claimed to recount the true stories behind some of the most haunted sites in the US and UK, as told by the ghosts themselves, through interviews with the blogger (who went by the pseudonym “LittleGhostLittleGhost”). The ID was clearly a picture of Norman Babcock taken from behind. Dipper couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that “interviews with the blogger”, who described himself as “a Medium dedicated to helping the many tortured souls who linger on this plane find the closure they need to move on”. It seemed clear, Dipper concluded, that Norman Babcock was claiming to be able to communicate directly with the dead … and that his own investigation was suggesting that wasn’t impossible …

****

It’s the little things which can be the hardest yet the most consequential to achieve.

Take meeting someone, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy could lumber up to someone and jabber their name at them, then just hope to forge a rapport around meaningless small talk (probably about girls or sports or bars or sports bars or girls *in* sports bars or maybe around how great never thinking is because they spend all their brainpower on girls and sports and bars—Gods above, below, and to the side, frat boys are *the worst*!). But meeting someone is the first step towards … everything that could happen afterwards. Absolutely *everything* being determined by one encounter—by that crucial first impression. Little wonder everyone talks about how important it is to make a good one.

But Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy (he would probably have shot himself right in the face by now if he was, because what would be the point of living one of their mediocre lives? how would one face the soul-crushing void of purpose and reason?). He understood the significance of meeting someone important, and always prepared accordingly. For example, he couldn’t just meet Norman Babcock anywhere on campus; no, they had to meet in Dorm H, and specifically in the common room on the top floor. And it couldn’t just happen anywhen, either; it had to be while the ghost was present—and, naturally, he’d be the topic of their first conversation, too. Absolutely no “a propos of nothing” or non sequiturs for them. Dipper would make it clear from the get-go that he was someone just as cool and competent as Norman Babcock himself was—the kind of person he’d want to know and associate with … Maybe discuss paranormal investigations with over drinks, or go investigating together, or even just study and hang out together in between cases … Whatever … So, anyway, that was what Dipper planned to do: meet Norman Babcock in the common room on the top floor of Dorm H while the ghost was studying with him, and say incisive, witty, generally charismatic things. Perfect plan!

However … Dipper was reminded the next evening that things seldom go as planned when he strode into the room in question (with a jaunty “Good evening, gentlemen!” on his lips), was pierced by Norman Babcock’s joltingly blue eyes, and instantly forgot all the clever things he had planned to say. For what felt like an eternity, he just stood there—pierced by those eyes and paralyzed with an uncharacteristic case of stage fright. “Uh … Um …”

Eventually, the Medium asked dryly, “Can I help you?”

“Guy, you’re the yes!” Dipper squeaked with a nervous smile plastered across his face.

“Uh … What?”

“I mean, yes. You’re the guy. Who can h-help me, I mean.” And, before Dipper knew what he was doing, he was pulling a chair up to the table. “N-name’s Dipper Pines!”

Reluctantly, the other freshman admitted, “… Norman Babcock.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Dipper said thoughtlessly. “Thanks to the … er … internet.”

Norman groaned faintly, “That video … Look, if this is about—”

“It’s not about that!” Dipper burst in quickly. “I actually have a—”

“No. Look, I’m aware of the bounty that Alpha Sigma Sigma put on my head, but—”

And with that, all of Dipper’s nervousness was burned away by a flash of indignation. “You think I’m a *frat boy*?! You think *I* am a frat boy?!”

“Aren’t you? Aren’t you here to try and prank me? You guys have been relentless about pranking me ever since I transferred into Dorm H—and doubly so since I refused to join after that whole ‘coffee-bomb’ incident,” he said as though the words caused him sever internal pain. “I’ve had like six different people try to get me in the past seven days.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some of them,” Dipper sympathized, for he had witnessed some while observing the Medium’s activities. “Poorly conceived, organized, and executed. Lame and desperate. But I am *not* one of those neanderthals. I’m no knuckleheaded, kunckledragging frat boy—and may an Elder God devour me if I should ever become one.”

“Then what do you want? Want me to tell you how your life will end? ‘Cause I normally charge for that, but I’ll make an exception if it’ll let us get back to studying.”

Dipper shrugged, feeling confident again. He had foreseen a conversation along this line. “Meh. I prefer to keep it a surprise. Besides, it’ll probably be a wendigo; those things are vicious, and really hard to kill. Got a scar from one of them, actually …”

Norman blinked. He hadn’t expected such nonchalance; most people were creeped out when he made that offer in that tone of voice. Nor had he expected to hear someone talk about wendigos to him. “Then … what?”

“I was actually wondering if you could tell me what his name was,” and here Dipper gestured to the other side of the table, where a medical textbook sat open and facing away from the Medium. “I’ve been looking everywhere, and I can’t find any definitive record of it. He … uh … he *is* sitting there, right?”

“W-who?” Norman asked unconvincingly.

“Oh c’mon, man. The ghost. The other person in that ‘us’ who’ll get back to studying.”

“… Why would I know what the ghost of Dorm H is called?”

“Because you’re a Medium. You see and can talk to ghosts,” Dipper stated confidently. When Norman said nothing, Dipper continued, “It’s how you can publish the true ghost stories on your blog, LittleGhostLittleGhost. It’s why you’re credited on shows like ‘Ghost Harassers’. By the way, do they have you go to the sites in person? I’ve kinda been wondering about that.”

Tensely, the boy with the vertical hair replied, “They pay my transit to a few each season, plus a stipend per site when I give them the real story and some script ideas. Then they act it out. It’s … not very respectful to the memories of the ghosts, but it’s putting me through college. Besides, I only give them the ones where the ghosts’ve moved on already anyway.”

His cap bobbing as he nodded, Dipper said, “Nice arrangement. For you and the ghosts. So … what’s his name, then?” and he gestured across the table again.

The Medium glanced across the table, as if awaiting some signal. Then he shrugged and grudgingly answered, “Roark Rickaby … He says you can call him ‘Rocky’.”

“And he was a medical student who hated alcohol and died in the 1930s?” Dipper asked.

Norman’s blue eyes widened ever so slightly. “You figured this out all on your own?”

“Yep. Like I said, I’m no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy.”

For the first time, Norman actually smiled at Dipper (who couldn’t help but smile back). His eyes went up and down the boy in front of him—taking in the stocky but not bulky frame, the thick mop of wavy, milk chocolate hair (the same color as his goatee and stubble, the same color as his eyes) under a well-loved blue and white cap (now more gray than white). “Q-quite the opposite, in fact, of how they l-look and act …”

“I’ll take that as a compliment! Gods, I hate them …”

“Ha! You and me b-both. Even before I came to this school. It’s part of why I transferred into Dorm H—fewer of them in here.”

“And for Rocky, I take it?” When the Medium nodded, the behatted boy asked, “So what’s his story? Why’s he still here? Why’s he hate alcohol so much?”

Though usually pale, Norman blanched—perhaps terrified, perhaps livid, perhaps both—whiter than snow. An instant later, the table quaked and the books upon it roiled like a maelstrom of paper. It lasted only an instant, but it was so sudden and violent that Dipper leapt back. Then, his voice as quiet and cold as midwinter, Norman challenged him, “What makes you think you have the right to just … just s-saunter in here and demand to know about a person’s most painful and most personal memories? What makes you think you’re entitled to that?”

“I’m … I’m sorry …” Dipper stammered. “I didn’t mean—”

“Then what *did* you mean?”

“I … I thought … Well, that if I knew, m-maybe I could help him … move on, y’know? Help finish his unfinished business? Isn’t … Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

Norman pierced the behatted boy with his eyes again … and then he seemed to soften. Maybe he saw the sincerity in him. Either way, he affirmed, “Yeah … Yeah, that’s what I do.”

“Well, me too. I do too. I investigate paranormal stud—er, stuff—all the time. Try to deal with all sorts of … stuff like this,” Dipper explained lamely. “So I thought m-maybe I can help. Like, you’re helping him study, right? Maybe I can help him study during your downtime? And that’d let *you* actually have some downtime because—no offence, man—you’re running yourself ragged. Not that you look bad, or anything,” he added quickly. “You look great! Fine. You look fine. But you’d look more fine with more rest, right?”

Norman’s jaw worked. He appeared to be listening across the table for a long moment. Then, finally, he declared, “Rocky’s unfinished business … is passing medical school. Help him with that, and he says you can know the whole story.”

“Okay. Deal. And … thanks. Both of you. You won’t regret it.”

Yet meeting someone isn’t the only little thing which can be hard to achieve, but majorly consequential in life. Earning someone’s trust is another—to say nothing of earning their respect or even their friendship. Ironically, these are little things which are made of many other little things. Or perhaps that isn’t ironic at all; perhaps it is the most natural thing in the world.

Either way, for Dipper with Norman and Rocky, that meant he had to first prove sincere in his offer to help Rocky pass medical school—had to organize study sessions around his and Norman’s class schedules, then be dependably present for all of them. But neither of those was particularly difficult for Dipper; he had a suitable timetable ready for Norman’s approval so fast that some might have suspected him of having drafted it before he had even introduced himself (which … was true), and he never ever EVER missed an appointment that was academic or paranormal (no way would he miss one that was both). No, the real difficulty was in figuring out how Dipper could be an effective study partner for Rocky, as Rocky could not simply tell Dipper to turn the pages of his study material like he could with Norman. At first they considered timing Rocky’s average reading speed per page, with the idea that Dipper would simply turn the page after that amount of time, but that was soon dismissed as it wrongly assumed that Rocky would perfectly understand and internalize everything after a single reading. Eventually (and entirely by accident), however, they discovered that Dipper’s EMF spiked every time that Rocky screamed at it; Dipper couldn’t hear the scream, but he could *see* the fluctuation on the monitor (see its blinking lights) if he kept it in front of him, and *that* could signal him to turn the page. Not the most dignified of solutions for Rocky, but it worked without costing any of his all-too-precious reserves of manifestational energy, so he accustomed himself to screaming at the blinking box. And, because Dipper did prove true to his word over the following weeks, this small indignity allowed Rocky to nearly double his study time. Totally worth it.

This consistent dedication to helping Rocky gradually eroded Norman’s reservations about Dipper. Before long, he consented to (and was even suggesting) associating with him in more than just study sessions. They would grab a coffee or a bite to eat between classes together, or they would go for a jog (which Dipper normally hated, but which he tolerated with Norman), or they would go see some movie on campus that Norman wanted to watch for his minor in film, or they would go listen to some local indie group in concert at a dive bar Dipper knew about (and where he was always welcome by the owner despite being underage—with the understanding that they not even try to drink—ever since an incident with a mothman), or they would re-watch (and re-geek out over) their respective favorite shows on Netflix … but more often than not, they would just hang out and talk about anything and everything for hours on end without ever noticing the passage of time. Even their unusual extracurricular activities. As Norman phrased it (and Dipper recorded it in his journal), it was just such “a relief to be able to talk about all this … supernatural stuff with someone like you—someone who *gets* it, y’know?—because even Neil (my best friend back home) doesn’t get it like you do”.

By that point (as they were virtually inseparable anyway), they would even *help out* on each other’s unusual extracurricular activities—a fact about which Mabel was ecstatic, because she esteemed Norman to be “super cool” (a sentiment, if not an exact wording, Dipper shared) *and* her brother (finally having a friend he could click with in all his geeky glory) was happier than she had ever seen him. She would eagerly hang out with them on a regular basis, and even managed to talk them (with additional pressure from their respective, meddling families) into attending one school football game “just for the sake of being able to say you did it”; of course, they both hated every second of it, but they had fun hating it together. Furthermore, Mabel would even take shifts helping Rocky study (who didn’t mind what he called {the more picturesque scenery}) when this, that, or the other extracurricular activity required more time than allowed by the timetable. In point of fact, helping a ghost convey their final message or rounding up a stray chupacabra (for example) usually did take more time than allowed by the timetable.

It was during one such shift in November that it occurred to Mabel that actually passing college wasn’t such an easy thing to achieve, either. A diploma is a little thing, true, but a consequential one and hard to obtain. Doubly so for Rocky. “I mean, he’s not exactly registered in any classes. And it’s not like we can matriculate him,” she pointed out to the boys. “So how’s he going to pass?”

Thunderstruck, Norman stammered, “I … W-we … hadn’t even thought of that! Rocky, calm down!” he added, his eyes moving to the middle room (where the ghost presumably … stood?) as the lights began to flicker and the temperature dropped a few degrees.

Dipper removed his cap and scratched his head pensively. “Hmm … Rocky, you’ve always struck me as a level-headed individual. So what’s really important: getting your name on some official-looking piece of paper, or proving you’ve got the knowledge necessary to pass medical school?”

“He says, ‘The knowledge, of course’,” Norman transmitted.

“So, really, all you have to do is pass the final exam of the final class, right?”

“But, Dip-Dop, how is he going to take that?” Mabel asked. “You told me he can’t ever leave Dorm H.”

“We’ll bring the test to him. Easy.”

“I don’t think they’ll let us walk off with one of those …”

Dipper shrugged. “Then we’ll break into the professor’s office and steal a copy. Easy.”

“And how will we know if he passed?” Norman asked. “None of us know the material well enough to grade it. Heck, none of us are even med students—I’m psych and film, you’re forensic criminology, and Mabel’s like super-majoring in all the arts at once.”

“Then we’ll have the professor grade it. We’ll break back in and put it with the rest. C’mon, guys these aren’t big problems—just little, bitty things we have to do,” Dipper stated cavalierly. “For Rocky!”

Norman couldn’t help but laugh. “Easy as that?”

“Easy as that.”

Mabel laughed, too. “I guess we do have a grappling hook and a key that can open any lock in America … Easy peasy!”

Norman furrowed his brow. “What’s this about a key?”

From within his vest pocket, Dipper produced a brass key with an eagled seal on the bow. It looked to be over two centuries old. “Just a magical item I’ve procured in my travels. It opens *any* lock in the 50 states … and presumably any US territories, though I’ve never checked.”

“Uh huh …” Skeptically, Norman challenged him, “What if the lock needs a keycard?”

Dipper grinned. “It opens those, too.”

“What if it’s a digital code?”

“It opens those, too.”

“What if it’s a safe combination?”

“Covered.”

“What if there’s a retinal scanner?”

“There won’t be, but yep! We had to test it once—funny story.”

“I was dressed like a hedgehog!” Mabel recalled fondly. “And Dipper punched a former commander of an Estonian militia!”

Norman couldn’t think of anything else to say, though he wasn’t entirely convinced. Instead, he inquired of Mabel, “You’ve really got a grappling hook?”

“Never leave home without it! It’s in my backpack right now!”

“Heh … I love you guys … So how are we going to do this?”

With a decisive crack of his knuckles, Dipper stated, “We need to stake out the joint and plan for how to infiltrate it. Leave that to me; if you two can cover my sessions with Rocky this week, I can figure out how we’ll get in.”

****

It’s the little things which allow one to move forward.

Take the medical building, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy could find out the basic floorplan (large, amphitheatric classrooms for generals on the first story, smaller and more specialized classrooms on the second and third, offices on the fourth and fifth, labs and dissecting rooms—nicknamed the morgue—in the two basement levels) and standard hours of operation (6 am – 8 pm on weekdays, closed on weekends); they were on a huge sign in the front atrium labeled “INFORMATION”. That would probably be all the information they sought before just blundering into the building.

But Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy (not ever, not even in the infinite parallel universes which must exist according to chaos theory, would it be possible). He knew an operation was contingent on accounting for all the little things which would happen. Like security guards (how many were there, and when did they make sweeps of the building?) and cameras (how many were there, and where were they?), knowing which professors tended to stay late (where would they be?), and how long it would take at the minimum to climb or descend the stairs, cross the necessary hallway, or search the right professor’s office. He figured it all out, though, and double-checked *and* triple-checked his plans. After all, Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy; he knew all their work that semester would be meaningless if Rocky couldn’t take that test, and he knew Rocky would never be able to take it if he couldn’t figure out how to move past all these impediments.

The night of December 11th, the night before the medical finals, was a cold one. Nobody who was out (and very few were at midnight—all according to the plan) looked twice at Dipper, Norman, and Mabel in their black-hooded jackets, black scarves, and black gloves (purchased cheap and secondhand at the local Gothvation Army, then laundered three times … to be safe). Once outside the medical building, their scarves went from their necks to their faces, and they crept around to the rear entrance. The Presidents’ Key was waved in front of the magnetic lock, and the door unbolted itself (“That actually worked!” Norman gasped.). They were in, but waited in the shadows until *three minutes after* a bored-looking security guard passed at 12:12. Padding softly, they climbed the stairs in under 40 seconds, jogged down the fourth floor in under 30, and unlocked their way into the professor’s office in under 5. All according to plan. Luckily, the copies of the test sat right there on the desk, and Norman snagged the top one (“Success!”) and slipped it into his backpack. Then they reversed directions—back out the door, down the hall, and to the stairs.

Except there was a slight snafu this time: someone was coming up the stairs! All three froze, and two of them looked to Dipper (“This isn’t part of the routine! That person’s *not* supposed to be here!” he hissed.). He pointed frantically back the way they had come—but not to the professor’s office (“It’ll look too suspicious, and we can’t have that!”); two rooms down, and on the other side of the building (“This one’s on sabbatical. No one’ll know we were here.”).

Once the Presidents’ Key had worked its magic and they were safely inside, Dipper immediately forced the window open high enough to lean out. Not a soul was to be seen below. He sighed. “Okay, it’s too risky to go back the way we came. Time to grappling hook away.”

Norman paled. “W-what?”

“It’s a little deviation from our original plan, but …”

Mabel nodded determinedly. “On it.” And she pulled it from her bag.

“We’re on the fourth floor!” Norman protested.

“Don’t worry; the cable’s long enough,” Mabel assured him as she secured it to the windowsill. “I’ll bring up the rear. You two go first.”

“Right!” And her brother took it firmly in hand and slipped out the window.

“I … I c-can’t do this!” Norman squeaked.

“Sure you can! It’s not that hard!”

“No, I m-mean … I’m real … real b-bad with heights …”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged a glance, then a nod. Mabel put a comforting arm around Norman’s shoulders and crooned in his ear, “You better not let go of Dipper, Norm-Norm.” Then she propelled him out the window and into Dipper’s free arm.

A few seconds of psyche-scarring terror later, Dipper gently set foot (and Norman) in the snow. “It’s over now, man. You’re okay. You’re okay. How are you? You okay?”

For his part, Norman just lay there.

Mabel slid down the cable like a ninja a moment later and whipped the hook free from the windowsill up above. “He going to be okay?” she asked as cable and hook retracted back into their propulsion system.

“… Yeah. Yeah, nothing that some hot chocolate won’t fix. C’mon, man, let’s get back to the dorm, alright?”

“I … will … kill … you … both …” Norman rasped.

“Fair enough,” Mabel allowed. “But be aware that I will leave two angels, because … SNOW ANGELS!” With that, she plopped down next to him to make one. It was a little gesture, but it allowed Norman (and, thusly, all of them) to move forward with their operation.

Of course, it was much easier for Rocky to take the test (Norman was his scribe) and for it to be slipped back among the others (a simple matter of tripping the professor after the tests the next day, and slipping Rocky’s among the spilled mass of papers). Getting the graded paper was a matter of repeating their infiltration (though Norman made it clear before they started he would *not* go out any windows) and finding Rocky’s among the stack of others. They did have one other snafu—another guard who wasn’t where he should be—but this time Mabel rendered him unconscious by hitting five nerve bundles in quick succession (“What? I’m studying all the arts, including the *martial* arts,” she pointed out. “I didn’t do this last time because it’s real risky … Yes, Norman, riskier than rapelling out a fourth floor window.”), and all three of them dashed unseen out the door.

It goes without saying that Rocky passed. There had been little doubt of this before, but Norman (flushed with their victory) still high-fived Mabel and pulled Dipper into the tightest hug he had ever given anyone (Dipper laughing all the while) when they first saw Rocky’s grade: 91.5%. An A- in a class that usually saw Cs. Rocky’s reaction was just as jubilant when they showed him: all the power in Dorm H surged and then blacked out. The Dorm Super wasn’t thrilled to be changing a fuse after midnight, but none of them really cared; they were throwing a little party to celebrate up in the common room on the top floor. After all, Dipper had suggested to his sister and friend just that morning, this was an achievement over 80 years in the making—they couldn’t just *not* celebrate! So Norman produced a bottle of Derrier sparkling grape juice (completely nonalcoholic, age-appropriate to this gathering of 18-year-olds, and acceptable to the pro-temperance ghost) and poured four cups while Mabel produced four homemade cupcakes and set a lit candle in one—the one set at the head of the table, with the fourth cup, for Rocky. Dipper did point out that candles are for birthday parties, but Mabel told him to hush on grounds that Rocky was due a few birthday parties, too (and then she stuck her tongue out at him); Dipper might have contested more had the candle not suddenly (and without the slightest natural breeze) been blown out. That settled the matter, it seemed. She then also threw a handful of confetti in the air (which she had apparently been keeping in her pockets) and set her phone to play a series of upbeat jazz-swing pieces from the 30s before dancing the Charleston. Dipper, for his part, was unusually reticent. After a moment of shy hesitation, he produced what looked like a book cover, except made of leather and embossed with the university’s seal. He set it at Rocky’s place.

Norman went very solemn. “What’s this?”

“I, uh … Not to be a jerk, since I know it costs him that manifestational energy you told us about, but … I think Rocky should still open it,” Dipper responded quietly.

To Mabel and her brother, it appeared as if this gift opened itself all on its own—revealing an official-looking document secured within. “Is this … a diploma?”

“Y-yeah. It’s not a real one, of course. I mean, *the protector* is (I filched it from the registrar’s office earlier today), but the paper isn’t. S-still, I figured that wouldn’t matter for us. I mean, after all he’s done and been through to graduate … Rocky should have something to show for it.” Then Dipper shrugged with forced nonchalance—at least, until Norman came around the table and hugged him tighter than he had ever hugged anyone for a second time that night.

And then, just as suddenly the Medium cocked an ear, and grew somber. To the twins, he related for Rocky, all these little things—these sweet, little gestures of congratulation—convinced him that now was the time to move forward in his existence; it was time to move on. They had helped him finish his business, and the proof was there on the table.

“But first … he made you a promise. You get to hear the whole story …”

Later, Dipper would summarize it in his journal thusly: “Rocky was first in family to go to college (mother’s pride and joy—put everything to his studies, which was hard since father died in mining accident). First in whole mining town (many contributed since he was going to become their doctor—very poor town, kinda communistic). But time was so racist that Irish, Italians, etc. weren’t considered ‘White People’. And very classist, too. Rocky was never really welcome by other students for this. Plus very hard-working, driven (not a social club for him—he was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy). Plus he was a teetotaler (yes, Norman, we know what that is, you didn’t have to keep explaining), and even though this was Prohibition, ‘cool kids’ all drank and partied anyway.

“One night, a bunch decided he was too uptight, a drink would loosen him up. Make him more fun, etc. So carried him down to basement, tied him to a chair, and forced so much alcohol down his throat so fast that he died of alcohol poisoning. They dumped his body in the quad with bottles, and police just assumed another Irishman drank himself to death. No investigation. Nothing. Besides, they’d never investigate (or even challenge the words of) the sons of important rich people. Killers never faced justice … I’d hate booze, too, after that …

“Still feels terrible about his town (probably thought he wasted the chance they worked so hard to give by drinking and partying instead of studying to help them, when all he did was study so he could help them). Feels worse about mother … alone and without any family to take care of her, since husband and son both dead. Never got to see him have a better life than miner or become a great man to community. All her hopes and happiness were murdered when he was. So Rocky couldn’t face them til he’d passed medical school … Now he has …”

While Norman recounted it all, he cried. Mabel cried. Even Dipper chocked up a little. But for them, it was worth all that when Norman finished the story, for he passed on Rocky’s most heartfelt thanks for helping to free him. And then, incredibly, Norman stood and appeared to shake hands with the empty air—except that it was no longer just empty air; with each passing second, the silhouette of a young man (a silhouette made of light and not shadow) coalesced before them. And the fluorescent bulbs overhead seemed to shine brighter, and the temperature in the common room seemed to rise until it was as warm as a blanket by a fire on a cold night. The handshake ended, and Rocky turned and strode out the door—light walking off into light—which then slowly faded away. Leaving only a slightly dimmer, slightly lesser reality.

“Whoa …” Mabel uttered in awe.

“That was … That was … sublime …” Dipper concurred.

“Yeah … It’s why I do what I do,” Norman offered modestly.

“That going on your blog next? Another true ghost story?”

“Yeah … I think I’ll write it up tomorrow … After I sleep in a bit …”

Mabel looked at her phone, then swore. “It’s almost 2 am already! I gotta go!”

“Wait!” Dipper stayed her a moment. “Just wait one sec, okay? There’s one last thing I wanna do in his memory. Be right back.” And then, with that, he jogged out. A moment later, he jogged back in. From within his vest, he produced a smuggled bottle of beer.

His sister gaped. “Where do you keep getting all this beer, Dipstick?”

“First of all, this is only the *second* bottle all semester. Second of all, I know people.”

“Who? You know exactly two people, and both of them are in this room!”

“Whatever, Mabes. Stop ruining the moment.”

Norman’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What moment?”

Cracking the beer open, Dipper set it on the table—set it right beside Rocky’s cupcake and cup of (no longer) sparkling grape juice. Dramatically placing his finger against its neck, Dipper then intoned, “In his honor, we prevent this beer from being drunk (drank? drunken?). Nothing will stop the knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boys from turning Dorm H into a veritable hell of inebriated debauchery now—prevent them from drinking now that he is gone.” Eulogy finished, Dipper tipped it over and let it spill onto the table.

Mabel sighed. “You’re such a dork, Dipstick. I’m taking the diploma you made before beer gets on it. I think I’ll frame it and hang it over this table … He always studied at it …”

“Most people will think it’s a joke. The accreditation is ‘signed’ by Chancellor Don G. Leeker,” Dipper pointed out sheepishly.

“Good jokes are worth framing. Anyway, you’d better get this cleaned up. I gotta run. See ya boys later!” And with that, she hugged them and departed.

For a moment, this left the two boys standing in an unusually awkward silence. Norman seemed strangely despondent. Eventually, he surmised, “I guess that’s that, then … You got what you w-wanted out of all the work we’ve done this past semester, right? Got all the answers about Rocky?”

“I … guess?” Dipper replied confusedly.

“Guess you’ll move onto your next mystery now …”

“Well, yeah … I was actually thinking we should look into this local legend next. Sounds like a kind of jiangshi monster—like a Spring-Heeled Jack—but I wanted to ask your opinion first. Make sure there weren’t some other ghosts we can help move on first.”

“W-we? You … s-still want me to help?”

“Well, yeah. Duh. You’re like my partner in this (you and Mabel), and a Medium—which is really useful. Why wouldn’t I want you there? Ha! What? Did you think I was only hanging out with you for the sake of unraveling the mystery of the infamous Dorm H ghost?”

“… M-maybe a little.”

Dipper seemed genuinely taken aback. “What, really? Man, we’re like best friends now! I wouldn’t ditch you even if you *weren’t* a Medium. Heck, I was even gonna ask if you wanted to be roommates next semester.”

“W-what? Yes! Really? Yes!” Norman babbled in his unexpected excitement. “That’ll be so cool!”

“I know, right! And we won’t have to deal with those philistine, skeptics we’ve been living with until now! It’ll be freakin’ awesome!”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s the little things which prove, in retrospect, that something should have been obvious.

Take Norman Babcock, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy could have put together that he was gay—like, sorta very gay … so very gay … kinda closeted, but definitely very gay—after a month of living with him. All the signs were there. For starters, his underwear was not the typically drab assortment of functional but monochromatic garments one almost always sees on straight guys. Nor was it merely “fun”. No, Norman’s underwear (in stark contrast to the rest of his wardrobe) was bright, flashy … downright cute. Flamboyantly so, even. An outside observer might never see this, given Norman’s tendency to not lounge around in his underwear, but the evidence was always there in his underwear drawer … and in his pants. Add to this his iPod collection (which had what a frat boy would have surely considered a suspiciously high quantity of songs by Lady Gaga, Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, and Katy Perry for anyone not openly flaunting either a pair of breasts or a rainbow shirt), the fact that he owned the film “Troy” (which would make a frat boy’s gaydar ping once), planned one day to visit Europe (which would make their gaydar ping twice), never drank but was on record saying he would prefer wine to beer (which would make their gaydar ping thrice), and studied film at a university (which would make their gaydar explode). A level-headed frat boy—if such a thing exists … and it does not, because they are all knuckleheaded and knuckledragging—might have realized this was circumstantial, but further evidence was that Norman did not have a girlfriend back home nor at school (nor did his life seem to be an eternal, fruitless quest into the fabled, mythical land of Herpants). With all that being true, how could Norman *not* be gay? Oh, and also there was the gay porn he secretly watched some nights … That would probably have been the real cincher for a frat boy—seeing the images of two+ men reflected (unbeknownst to Norman) from his laptop screen off the window, long after the frat boy should have been asleep and Norman’s chronic insomnia guaranteed him the only privacy there is in dormitory-living …

And Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy. Which is probably why he was completely okay with this revelation when it occurred to him (he was smart enough and progressive enough to realize it didn’t matter who his friend and roommate was attracted to, and that his friend and roommate probably preferred that his secret remain a secret until he was ready to reveal it to Dipper himself—unlike one of those idiot, backwards frat boys, who probably would have been all “it’s okay, man, love you … but no homo” before telling everyone in Dorm H, and making everything awkward when it could just … stay something they never, *ever* talked about). Just like Dipper was completely okay with Norman discreetly masturbating late at night (when he could reasonably expect Dipper to be asleep) the first time he overheard it. These were all just mutual concessions people had to make each other when they lived in such close quarters, and Dipper certainly was not going to blame his friend for needing to relieve his physical urges. “Heck,” he reassured himself from time to time, “I have to do it sometimes, too! I’m certainly trying to be discreet and secret and all that about it, and he seems completely okay with me! So I am completely okay with Norman being gay and … and occasionally watching gay porn and/or masturbating in our room … Completely okay! I am not a knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy, after all!”

Or … *mostly* okay with it. Because once it did occur to him—once he accidentally saw the reflected porn—his mind couldn’t stop reexamining all their past interactions for the clues (those crucial, little things … besides that one big thing he glimpsed late one night by accident) which he should have noticed sooner. And the ramifications, he concluded, were … a little unsettling for him. Yes, there was the cute underwear he noticed after they became roommates, the music which he happened to enjoy too (because it was catchy, damn it!), and all those stupid, meaningless, stereotypical things (most of which objectively sounded fun—who wouldn’t want to go visit Europe, damn it?!) … But there were also all those times, when they were together on some investigation, that he looked at him this certain way … Of course, both pretended he hadn’t looked when he noticed, but the blushing … the blushing proved they were just pretending … And, occasionally, physical contact that seemed lingering and … and intimate—more lingering and more intimate than it would have been between even close friends if that was all they wanted to be … And the Freudian slips! All the Freudian slips! It was like a psychiatry conference on a freakin’ banana plantation! They seemed to be everywhere! Before they had become roommates, *AND* after—and Dipper’s mind couldn’t stop examining and reexamining *ALL* of them! Nor could he help lying awake every night thereafter, watching through half-closed eyelids for the glow of a laptop and the reflection of two+ men doing *things* to each other … listening (even when that glow did not half-illuminate the room) for the quick, repetitive, sloughing sound every boy would recognize at once … Listening for the sound of Norman masturbating that one big thing, and murmuring other things to himself too deep and low to be heard distinctly …

How could anyone be completely okay with that? How could anyone even be *mostly* okay with it? But one has to pretend to be; one has to never, ever talk about it … or one will just make things more awkward for everybody …

“You doing okay, Bro-Bro?” Mabel asked him about a month into the new semester. “You’re looking even more sleep-deprived and jumpy than usual.”

“Just … having trouble sleeping …”

“What, you too? Like Norm-Norm?”

“… Not exactly. Just … having trouble turning off my mind. Can’t calm it down …”

“Well, we can call off the monster hunt tonight,” she suggested carefully. “Wait ‘til you’re a little more rested, maybe?”

“No, I’m fine, Mabes.”

“You sure? It’s just that Norm-Norm … thinks you’re not quite yourself lately. Like you’re coming down with something?”

Emphatically, Dipper stated, “I’m. Fine. Mabel. We’re gonna catch us a jiangshi tonight and put an end to its spring-heeled reign of terror. That Jack will be off tonight, you hear me? Jerked right off of his life-force stealing game.”

“Okay …” Mabel relented reluctantly. “Just … make sure you get some rest today. Y’should skip class and go take a nap or something.”

“Yeah … Yeah, a nap sounds like a good idea …”

But Dipper could not fall asleep—not even in the rare hours of absolute privacy he had in the room that afternoon. With red-rimmed eyes gazing at nothing in particular (one of Norman’s posters, then another, then his bed, then another poster ad nauseum), he just lay in his bed while his mind ran slipshod over all his interactions with Norman yet again … That certain way he looked at him … The blushing while he pretended not to notice … The lingering, almost intimate physical contact during a hug or a clap on the shoulder or a tousle of hair or a bout of horseplay or passing something or … or … or any unexpected contact … And all those Freudian slips … More than a psychiatric association’s annual tour of a champagne cellar during an earthquake … And the sight and the sounds of Norman after he thought Dipper was asleep at night … It was enough to drive anyone mad with—

“Dip? Dipper? It’s almost 8, man.”

Dipper started awake to piercingly blue eyes in his bed. Norman! It was Norman in his bed! No, wait … Norman was leaning over Dipper’s bed and shaking him awake …

“You said we need to go at 8 if we’re to catch that jumping vampire thing.”

“Right … Right …” Dipper murmured as he gradually returned to consciousness.

“S-sorry to wake you,” Norman added apologetically. “I know you needed the sleep, plus you looked like … er, like you were enjoying it, too!” he added with a forced, jovial laugh.

At first, Dipper wasn’t sure what his friend was talking about. Then he shifted positions to climb out of bed, and it was almost painfully apparent what he’d meant. In disbelief, Dipper looked down at the boner bent inside his crotch for about two full seconds. And then he flushed with mortification (“… Crap!”) and grabbed his cap off his desk to cover it.

“M-maybe we should call you ‘Big Dipper’!”

The behatted boy (though not wearing said hat where he normally did) very wittily told his friend to go do something anatomically impossible. At the same time, he turned away and adjusted himself until he could move without sever discomfort.

“Hey, man, I’m just s-saying. By the l-looks of it, you got nothing to be sh-shamed of.”

“Takes one to know one!” Dipper shot back.

“… Huh?”

“Er … L-look, unless you’re planning on sucking it, stop staring at my crotch!” Dipper retorted, doubling down on his bluster in this game of Gay Chicken.

Norman blushed, but couldn’t back down now. He re-retorted, “Ha! You wish!”

Dipper blushed further as well, but couldn’t back down now either. So he re-re-retorted, “Maybe *you* wish …”

This brought the two roommates to a tense standoff, neither flinching. Because in the game of Gay Chicken, you win or you die … Or you call a draw when one of you realizes that he is still holding a hat over his groin, and there is just *no* way to make that look dignified.

“Anyway …” Dipper placed his cap back over his mop of wavy hair. “We got everything for tonight? Th-these jiangshi types can be tricky.”

“Everything but our fearless leader.”

So Dipper grabbed what he thought he needed, threw it in his backpack, and they both went to meet Mabel. Overall, this particular hunt was not particularly eventful; compared to the two pages of investigatory notes which led up to it, Dipper would later only record of it, “Caught Spring-Heeled Jake as he was leaving lair with weighted net Mabel had knitted. Tried to escape, but couldn’t run (or jump) off into the night. Tried to flee back into lair, but we caught up soon. Put up a fight, but we subdued it without major injury. Then killed it the typical way one kills a jiangshi—nothing special. The women who like to undress in front of their second+ story windows of this town can now strip without fear of jumping, Chinese, vampire-things bursting through their windows.” What Dipper left out, however, was that he was the one wounded … along with the details of *how* he was wounded. While fleeing into his lair, Spring-Heeled Jake had rebounded on Norman (intent on draining his qi force to fight off the twins), but Dipper had tackled the jiangshi monster (while shouting “NO! HE’S … NOT *YOURS*!”) from the side. During the ensuing scuffle, it had managed to slash Dipper across the arm with a long pinky claw ‘ere Mabel had pistolwhipped it from behind with her grappling hook. Dipper also left out how Norman hugged him so tightly after rolling Spring-Heeled Jake off of him that Dipper could feel *every* part of his rescued body, and how Dipper had gotten all embarrassed and awkwardly pushed Norman off of him. And how Norman was so worried for Dipper’s gash that he treated it himself right then and there (while quietly chastising Dipper for putting himself in danger like some kinda idiotic, Gerard Butler, he-man, action hero wannabe), and how Dipper gruffly but quietly protested that this wasn’t necessary (while demanding if he should’ve just left *Norman* in danger, because—Sorry, Florence Nightingale!—he wasn’t ever going to do that). And also how Norman noted Dipper trembled when he touched him, but also how Dipper redly insisted that this was just because the wound hurt and Norman kept aggravating it with his … *caring*. And also how Norman deflated, apologized for snapping, and sorta awkwardly thanked Dipper for saving him (… even if, y’know, I didn’t *need* saving), and how Dipper likewise deflated, apologized for snapping, and sorta awkwardly thanked Norman for treating his arm (… even if, y’know, it didn’t *need* treating).

Dipper also left out that, while he and Norman were busy going back and forth like this, it was actually Mabel who took care of dispatching the jiangshi for good; truthfully, she did most of the work that night, and pseudo-scathingly voiced her opinion of that (once she had finished), when she informed them, “It’s done; we can go back now. Unless you two want some *more* clichéd, post-rescue-in-an-action-movie, sexual-tension-laden bickering, ‘cause I can always leave you here *to bone* tonight, then come pick you up in the morning—the Elder Gods know I’ve already carried your sexually-frustrated asses enough for one night …”

Understandably, the ride home was … somewhat uncomfortable for the boys. As was climbing up to their room and preparing for bed (especially changing into sleepwear … neither looked at the other while they did). Neither said much to the other beyond “G’night” after they departed the lair. Nor did either of them actually fall asleep when they both pretended to.

Breathing with deliberate, almost suffocating slowness, Dipper lay in his bed and waited. But there was no computerized glow in the darkness. Not this night. No, instead, there was a deepening and a quickening of breath from the other side of the room—from Norman’s bed—unaccompanied by digital stimulation. No video simulation of pleasure (experienced by unreal pornographic proxies) to set the beat of excitement. Not this night. The rhythm of self-pleasure (the beat of beating meat) was an entirely live and original performance coming from Norman’s own imagination. Real experience set the tone of his passion, so that when his low, slow moans punctuated the 2/4 measures of his breathing, Dipper could feel it in his bone as much as Norman surely did. It was … strangely musical to listen to. A man music. It spoke to him in a primal way. He resonated with it so deeply—deeper even than his gut—that it felt like he was trembling. Resonating like the taut skin of a drum pulled tight, but on and in and within him, so that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw down or throw up. He was sweating, though … He was *hot* like he was running, and about to collapse … but also like he could forever.

“Ah … Ah … D … Dipper … Ah …”

And then he was cold—cold, or so hot he burned white like ice. Impossible to tell. But … Did Norman know? know he was still awake? know he was listening to this? know he had just snapped like a string pulled one twist too tightly … all from thinking he had heard his name?

“Dip … per … Ah … Dipper … Dipper … Yeah …”

Okay, so he had *not* misheard just now. Norman actually *was* moaning his name while in the throes of self-pleasure … Wait, for real? Yes … And he really had just cum from hearing the … the naked desire in Norman’s voice …

“Yeah … Dipper … Dipper! Dipper! *Dip*—ah! Ah! Aaah …. Dipper … Mmm …”

And, if his ears weren’t deceiving him, Norman had just cum while saying his name … Gods above, below, and three steps to the side, that was hot … Crap crap crap crap crap crap *crap* it was so damn hot …

****

It really is the little things which prove that something should have been obvious.

Take hearing your roommate and best friend masturbate while moaning your name aloud. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy could deduce that meant they were into you; it was kinda obvious. What more was there to be said? And what could even they (so unburdened by intellect or wit) deduce from *you being into* hearing your roommate and best friend masturbating while moaning your name aloud? Getting so hard—harder than you’d ever been, until every touch was so powerful a sensation—you had to fight not to cry out while you stroked yourself and listened to your name, and loved the sound of it in their overwrought voice? That was also kinda obvious. And if it happened again the next night, too? And again the night after that? What could even they deduce? And what would they call it if you clarified that your roommate and best friend was a guy … and you were also a guy?

And Dipper, being no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy, could make all those same deductions in a microsecond. The conclusion was more than kinda obvious, and it was three letters long: G-A-Y. Gay. Gay gay *gay*. Of course, this did pose a few new questions: If Dipper had made all the same deductions in a microsecond, why did he spend all of the second day trying to find a different explanation? Could the … events … of the previous night mean something—*anything*—else? And, once it was apparent that there was no other explanation, why had he not realized this *sooner* (because it was *all there* in his previous interactions with Norman… *he* had been looking at Norman in this certain way, too, and Norman had been blushing while pretending not to notice *him*, too …*he* had been lingering, almost intimate during any physical contact with Norman, too … *he* had been making more Freudian slips than a psychiatric symposium on a rainy rooster farm—and it doesn’t matter if none of these analogies make sense, because THE POINT IS PENIS, DAMN IT!—too … and *he* had been the one lying awake at night to get off on seeing/hearing Norman masturbate!)? Why had he not done something to *stop* all this from happening then? How could he have been so *stupid* as to let this mother****ing godsdamned ****storm on a sandwich of a hella dumbass cluster**** just mother****-****-****ety-****-****-****ing happen?! Though physically present in all his classes and study sessions, not a single brain cell could process anything beyond a continuous loop of these questions, ruminations, and self-beratings. He took no notes, nor had any cogent memories of what happened. He just sat there, staring ahead and screaming internally. It didn’t help that, when he reexamined the more sensual memories, he got hard all over again.

By the third day, emotional isolation, sleep deprivation, and pent up sexual frustration led Dipper to a different emotional state; where he had felt panicked and hopeless the day before, he now felt indignant (almost angry). He hadn’t been gay before meeting Norman, he determined, certainly not … Which meant Norman had done this *to him*! It was his fault! He was to blame! Norman had made him gay—what with his stupid hair like you could hide in it on a rainy day, and his stupid body you could squeeze like a stuffed animal when everything was going wrong, and his stupid, gorgeous face you just wanted to hit … wanted to hit … Gods, Dipper wanted to hit that stupid, beautiful face! To say nothing of his stupid eyes that pierced right through you and made you want to be a better person! And his stupid voice and stupid smile and stupid laugh! Oh, *and* his stupid jokes—always so smart, intelligent, and witty (Gods, how stupid it was!)—and the way he would do this stupid singing and dancing with his favorite songs *whenever* they came on (no matter what you were trying to study) and *would not stop* ‘til you joined in! And the stupid way he was always caring about everybody else more than himself (even though he struggled so hard to show it to living people)! And the stupid way he could just get things nobody else did … so stupid smart … *always* so stupid smart that you could just talk to him without having to censor or edit or dumb down yourself—just talk to him like yourself, y’know?! Gods, why?! Why did Norman have to be this way?! Why did Norman have to make him gay?! If he were here with Dipper right now, he would just hit him … just hit him in his stupid, beautiful face again and again and—

“Dude!”

The behatted boy’s eyes came back into focus. He realized they were pointed in the direction of a very affronted young woman. He was in a study section of the library. “Huh?”

“You mind not undressing me with your eyes?”

“… Wait, what? I wasn’t—”

“Sicko perv!” she snapped. “Seriously, dude! At least go someplace private to get off!”

This misunderstanding would have been hilarious if it had not been so mortifying, but Dipper elected simply to flee the situation rather than try to explain that his flushed face and public boner couldn’t have been for her because she was a woman, and he was apparently gay for his roommate. His stupid, gay, stupid, gorgeous, stupid roommate … who was entirely to blame for this predicament, too …

The indignation had not abated by the time he returned to his dormitory room, and he banged the door both while opening and closing it. Naturally, this startled Norman, who began to ask, “Everything alright?” but was cut off by Dipper snapping, “Going to bed now.” Given how unusually belligerent a response this was, Noman began to ask, “You okay?” but was cut off again by Dipper snapping, “We’re. Going. To bed. Now.” and undressing for just that purpose. Concerned for his friend’s state of mind, Norman began to ask, “What’s wrong?” but was cut off a third time by Dipper (now in his underwear and a ratty, bedtime t-shirt) snapping, “I said … we’re going … to bed,” and even flicking off the light before clambering into bed.

Now in the dark, the Medium resignedly closed his textbook and notes. Then, changing by feel and not sight into his own bedclothes, he slipped between his own sheets. Silence hung heavy in the room for a moment. Eventually, Norman observed, “You’ve been kinda out of sorts recently …”

Dipper grunted.

“Is … something the matter?”

“Heh … Oh, yeah … Freakin’ *every*thing …”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“But you just said—”

“Forget about it. Trying to sleep.”

“… Did *I* do something? Are you upset with m-me?”

Dipper said nothing.

“… I’m sorry,” Norman apologized, sincere if confused. “I d-don’t know what I did … but I’m really sorry.”

Dipper still said nothing.

“What did I do? How can I m-make it up to you?”

“Forget about it,” Dipper repeated tersely. “I’m already asleep.”

“Talk to me, man! I can’t stand you being angry with me—especially if I d-don’t know why! You and Mabes are like my only friends here, and—”

“I. Am. Asleep. Listen.” and he made snoring noises.

“—you mean so much to me—”

“Will you just shut up and get on with it!? I’m already asleep!”

Meekly, Norman tried one last time, “But—”

And then (after weeks’ worth of sleep deprivation and several days of existential angst), Dipper just exploded. “Gods above, below, and three steps to the side! Are you going to masturbate about me tonight or not?!”

If silence could have a color, the one that now fell upon (and crushed) Norman would have been pale. Pale from shock, pale from fear, and pale from shame all at once. Eventually, he squeaked, “Y-you … know about that?”

“Yes, I know about that! How could I not—you do it every freakin’ night! Now would you just get on with it already so I can get some freakin’ sleep?!”

“… What?” Confusion inflected Norman’s voice.

“Well, I can’t sleep until you do, now can I?!”

“… You can’t? Why not?”

“Because I …” Dipper stopped short, unbalanced by the question. He had no real answer ready to give. So with a shake of his head (that Norman couldn’t see in the dark) and a bluster in his voice, he retorted, “Because I just can’t, alright? It’s very … distracting. Yes. Distracting. So start already. Get it over with.”

For a long moment, there was no response from the other side of the room. In fact, it was long enough for some self-doubt to sap away at the indignation which had powered Dipper through such uncharacteristic brazenness. He wondered if he had he gone too far … Wait, that was stupid, he concluded; *of course* he had definitely gone too far! What sort of idiot just—

“… Okay …” Norman practically whispered.

Dipper swallowed thickly and listened … It was *really* happening … Though the sound was not nearly as quick as normal, it had that same repetitive, sloughing quality every boy would recognize at once … The sound of deliberate strokes … Of his roommate jerking himself off … Of Norman masturbating for him … Oh gods, it really *was* happening! Even though he had moronically revealed himself to Norman! But … there was a different undertone from before, barely noticeable unless one knew how to notice the little deviances from a larger norm (which Dipper did). He wasn’t just listening to the sound of his roommate jacking himself off for him; he was also listening to the sound of his roommate *listening to him* while doing it.

“… D-do you … like … um … listening to me … l-like *this*?” Norman asked shyly.

“I … uh … M-maybe, yeah …” Dipper answered, just as shy now. He swallowed thickly again; he felt like he was choking on words that were forcing their way up from somewhere deeper than his lungs. He wasn’t sure what they were, but he knew he had to open his mouth and let them out or he might just burst from the pressure of them. “C-could I maybe … m-maybe *watch* you, too?”

A sharp intake of breath—a gasp of surprise? of agitation? of excitement?—and a pause as long as a heartbeat or a brainwave … or perhaps both. A rise in Norman’s voice (normally as deep and smooth and calm as a mountain lake) by nearly an octave. “Y-you wanna—”

“Yeah.” An answer before the question was even asked—an answer that was just as shocking for *Dipper* as the question had been. And while his conscious mind just looked on, absolutely dumbfounded at what was coming out of the mouth it was *supposed* to control, even more came tumbling out. “Yeah, I do … S-so … turn on the light.”

Another agonizing moment followed. Another pale, crushing silence. Another chance for Dipper to conclude that he had gone too far and to start yet another list of all the many things he regretted from the past 24 hou—

“… Okay …” Norman practically whispered again.

If Dipper’s conscious mind could have been depicted in that moment, it would have been as a neat, exasperated man in a white coat simply throwing his well-organized clipboard of notes into the air and storming out of a lab where everything and everyone was inexplicably exploding into literal bananas. There was simply no way to account for all that was happening, and clearly someone else was running this show, so it might as well just check out.

But in the real world, there was a rustle of cloth as Norman slipped out of his bed and, with incredulous hesitation, crossed the room to turn on his desk lamp on. For a moment, he stood facing the lamp; its light was softer—dimmer—than that of the overhead installation … probably why he had chosen it instead … yet it was still dazzling after the heaviness of the dark. He stood facing it for a long moment, blinking disbelievingly at it. Or maybe at the realization of what would follow next—what had to follow next … He seemed to stand facing it the way a deer faces headlights.

His silhouette stretched across the room to fall across Dipper, who watched and waited with tense apprehension. Oh boy…He thought over and over again in a mix of terror and elation. Oh boy oh boy oh boy … This was happening—*really* happening … “T… er, Turn around.”

With a deep breath, Norman turned to face Dipper and his watching eyes. A reddish hue tinged his cheeks and the erection poking out of the waistband of his boxers, but his t-shirt hid most everything but the telltale bulge.

Not that Dipper had a lot of experience in this particular matter, but that bulge looked pretty impressive to him. Tightly, he observed, “Your sh-shirt … It’s blocking … *it* … T-take it off.”

Norman gulped. And then he complied. Nervousness made him twitchy, and he somehow entangled himself during the normally familiar manoeuver, but his shirt still fell to the floor. Redder in the face now, his exposed torso seemed all the whiter. Only a light dusting of dark hair about his chest and groin contrasted the ivory of it. He was thin—almost skinny—his on-again-off-again habit of jogging and tendency to subsist mostly on coffee having already cut away most of the fat his naturally lanky frame would hold. But he was, mercifully, neither boney nor overly defined; he looked real … achingly, attainably real … with a long erection as red as his face standing out against his white frame … and *trying* to stand out from his boxers.

Dipper actually had to take a second to regain his breath. When he did, he gestured at the boxers and said, “Th-those, too, they’re blocking … *it* … So … y-yeah … Take them off.”

Again, Norman gulped. It was as if he was preparing to leap from the highdive. Then, hooking his thumbs into the waistband, he bent over and pushed them down off of his body. When he rose back up, so did his dick. Like his posture and his frame, it was straight and long and white, but his head was flushed as bright as sexual desire itself; both seemed to be waiting, as if at embarrassed, twitchy attention.

Making a tight gesture back to his roommate’s bed, Dipper quavered, “S-sit down … And then … t-touch yourself …”

“Y-you …” Trembling, Norman murmured in a rush, “have to d-do it, too. You, t-too.”

Blanching, Dipper tensed around himself. He seemed to retreat, and to drag the blankets that still covered his body with him. “W-what?!”

“You … h-have to … to t-touch yourself, too,” Norman insisted, not daring to meet the other boy’s eyes. “Or I w-won’t … I want to s-see … *it*, too … P-please …”

Give up his layers of protection? Lay bare *everything* right now, both body and soul? Uncover himself the way his roommate had—meaning … *on demand*? That was the cost of … moving forward now, Dipper realized; it was that, or this was where it ended. And … he did not want it to end here … Slowly, as if in disbelief at his own actions, he pushed the blankets away. He rose from his bed. And it was amazing how even that little bit of movement brought his own arousal into confrontation with his garments. Had they always been this … this *restrictive*? this uncomfortable? this *tight*? It was almost as amazing as how much tighter that confrontation grew when Dipper noticed the fixated hunger in his roommate’s blue eyes—the way Norman stared at his bulge. How had he managed to veil such intense desire before now? How had Dipper not seen it sooner? That hunger left Dipper unsure whether he wanted to turn away and cover himself up, or turn more towards Norman and strike a pose (“Feast your eyes on *this*!” he might say.). Then off came his shirt, revealing his broader shoulders and almost-barrel chest (along with the familially inherited abundance of body hair—a curly fuzz that complimented his mop of wavy locks and somewhat unkempt facial hair). Finally, after pointedly locking eyes with Norman, he pushed off his boxers to let his own hard-on spring free.

A sharp intake of breath. A dilation of already eager eyes. An irrepressible flash of a grin. A deepening of an already deep blush. “It’s … b-big!” For while Norman’s was longer, Dipper’s was thicker and strong-looking; it matched his stockier frame as well as Norman’s did his.

And Dipper, in spite of himself, felt the same happy reaction spread across his face; recognition is always gratifying. “Well … You’re pretty s-sizeable, yourself …” he confessed. “N-now … sit down.” He pointed at his roommate’s bed. “Sit down and pl-play with yourself … for me to watch.”

Just as flushed as before, but no longer grim or fearful—actually daring to smile—Norman sat. With his eyes devouring Dipper’s body, his hand then re-enveloped his own dick and began to pump it. Faster now than before, and harder. Again and again and again and again. His breathing came to deepen and quicken in time with the beat his hand set.

Across from him, Dipper also sat and started to stroke himself. He was too caught up in the moment (they both were) to question the absurdity of it; no, he simply let the pleasure of seeing and being seen during so private a moment unfold over him. They were not only naked, but naked *together*. His strokes quickened at the thought. They were not only naked together, but *aroused* by that nakedness—Norman *wanted* Dipper’s body, and wanted Dipper to see that he wanted it. He ran his free hand over his torso at that thought. They were not only aroused by their shared nakedness, but *indulging* in that arousal—taking full advantage of it to enjoy their own bodies—and in the voyeuristic enjoyment to be had by watching and being watched during such an indulgence; it was the most sexual act they could perform separately. His free hand cupped his balls and toyed with them at that thought.

Then Dipper wondered … What if they did *not* perform this sexual act *separately*? What if they did *not* indulge their shared arousals *separately*? Meaning, what if—instead of Norman only touching himself, and Dipper only touching himself—they were to touch themselves together … to touch each other? to jerk each other off? to really masturbate together? What if they were to sit side by side on the same bed? What if they were to sit so close that their bare skin would be on bare skin? Warm from such intimate contact despite the chilly winter air. Close enough to smell the voluptuous aroma of the other man’s body. Close enough to brush their lips against a shoulder or a neck and taste that voluptuousness. What if Dipper were to sit that close, then reach down and take Norman’s dick in hand? to feel its solidity and heat and … and *realness*? to heft its girth and span its length again and again and again and again? What if Norman were to do the same to Dipper’s cock? And what if they were grip each other’s tightness so tightly and duel (literally “mano a mano”) to see whose flesh would yield first? What if they were to touch each other like that? That would be so, *so* hot …

Though his gaze remained on Norman as a whole, Dipper’s focus flitted from part of his physique to another—now his dick … now his legs … now his feet … now his dick again … now his arms … now his dick a third time … now his chest … now his neck … now his eyes … now his dick … now his lips … He saw that the taller boy was panting from the excitement and the exertion of his constant pumping, his mouth an open shadow that hinted at pretty white teeth (not perfectly even—slightly bucked—but all the more attractive when he smiled for that cute, so-called “flaw”) and a pink, sassy tongue …

So Dipper wondered… What if that mouth were to open wider? What if he were to fill it? Meaning, what if Norman were to cross the few steps that separated their beds—to cross the oh so short distance that lay between them—and kneel in front of Dipper? He had heard from other residents of Dorm H (while wink-winking and nudge-nudging each other) that the beds were just the perfect height for … certain jobs of a more … blowing persuasion. So what if he were to put Norman to work in such a fashion? to give him such a job? to tell him to get over here, to get on his knees, and to get sucking? What if Dipper were to run his hand through that impossible, gorgeous head of hair of Norman’s while it bobbed up and down? What if Dipper were to grip it tight and push it further down the shaft? What if Norman were to offer no resistance, but work it with his lips and tongue and throat? Oh gods, that would be hotter than hell …

He saw that the taller boy was panting harder now. He saw that his mouth actually did hang open wider than before. Then he watched him put his free hand to his mouth … watched him bite down on a finger … watched him suck at it a little … A nervous gesture he had noticed before in the taller boy, but one so provocative in this context that he couldn’t help but wonder if his roommate was imagining the exact same thing—if he was imagining having this “b-big” cock fill his hungry mouth-hole … After all, he was already lapping at it *with his eyes* (devouring it, swallowing it, gulping it down), so why would he not imagine doing so *with his mouth*?

But, Dipper then realized, Norman’s mouth … his mouth-*hole* … wasn’t the only hole that he could fill. There was another, and he wanted to fill it, too … But that hole was not visible, seated as Norman currently was (or even with him seated at all). A problem easily fixed, though. And yet, not so easily fixed. All Dipper had to do was say the words and Norman would comply (Dipper *knew* this instinctively—*knew* that Norman would do whatever he said), yet it had never been harder to articulate what he wanted. The words seemed to catch in his throat and choke him—he couldn’t breathe! he couldn’t speak!—worse than before they had even started. The pressure was ten times worse than before! A hundred times worse than before! He opened his mouth, but the words were stuck inside! He opened it again, then once more, but nothing came out but a strangled gasp!

And then, mercifully, Norman panted, “Y-yeah? W-what d’you want me … to do?”

“L … Lean … back … Like, you’re gonna … lie d-down, but … don’t lie down …”

Norman shifted until his shoulders and head were against the wall, his hair rising parallel with it and his own attentive dick. His sweat-sheened body reclined across the width of his bed, still directly facing Dipper. His long, graceful calves hung over the edge. “Like this?” he panted.

“Yeah, good … Now … L … L-lift your … legs!”

“Uh …” Somewhat perplexed, Norman tightened his abs to lift his legs straight up.

“No, I-mean … Sp-spread them … Y’know?”

Realization bloomed in Norman’s eyes. “Oh!” And then, comprehension of what this instruction implied. “O-oh …” Another blush, brighter and deeper than the constant red of exertion in his face. “Like *this*?” he asked, almost shyly, as he spread his legs apart (his knees pointing up in the air and his heels braced against the bedframe for support).

“Y-yeah …” Dipper confirmed quietly, his focus coming to rest just a little below Norman’s upraised dick. “But d-don’t stop … playing with yourself …” he directed almost absently. Because, as much as he had found he liked the sight of Norman’s dick, his mind was on Norman’s ass. The buttocks were round and taut—the kind *everybody* would like to just give a perky little slap to, even in passing—and between them … tight and pink and achingly perfect … the opening to that other hole … And Dipper could think of no other word or phrase but “hole” to describe how desirable it was to him right then; every other word or phrase he had ever heard sounded either demeaning, denigrating, or just plain disgusting (the stuff of lowbrow jokes for knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boys—and screw those guys… or rather, don’t screw them, because none of them would ever be half as attractive as Norman always was). So “hole” it was. There was the opening to Norman’s other hole, as eager to be seen as the rest of him.

And Dipper wondered … What if that hole were eager to be more than just *seen*? What if it were as eager for some hands-on attention as he imagined the dick or the mouth were? Meaning, what if Dipper were to cross the few steps that separated their beds—the distance that practically was no distance at all between them—and push Norman’s legs further apart? What if he were to widen access to that hole? And what if he were even to go so far as to … to actually *touch* it? to probe inside it with a finger, or *more than one* of his fingers? to spread that hole open enough to … to … to do *more*? And that was supposed to be something gay boys liked; Norman would enjoy it. Maybe even love it so much that he would … he might … moan out Dipper’s name while it happened! Oh Elder Gods, the idea was so hot that it burned …

“Y-you … ever pl-play with yourself? Lower down, I mean?” Dipper blurted.

“I, uh … S-sometimes, yeah …” the taller boy confessed guiltily. “But not for … a while ‘cause … uh, hard to get enough p-privacy for … for *that* ‘round here. Y’know what I mean?”

“Don’t have to worry ‘bout … privacy *now* though … do you?” Dipper challenged him hungrily. His brown eyes bore into Norman’s clear blue, right to the depths of his soul. Almost like Norman’s had pierced him the night they first met. And whether from the ravenous intensity now being directed at him, or from the implication of his challenge, Norman blossomed so bright that even his ears were as red as a rose. Funny, Dipper thought, that he had never noticed how big they were … Or not big, per se—perfectly proportionate in size, as a matter of fact—but round and protrudent ... They were rather cute, actually, and he suddenly felt that he would like to nibble on them … “Well? Do you?” Dipper challenged him again, more forcefully this time.

“… no,” Norman answered meekly. Then, just as meekly, “Do you … w-want me to?”

“Y-yeah … Play with your … with your *hole*, too …” Dipper said raspily. “Pl-play with your butt-hole for me …”

Nervously, Norman wetted a finger—the middle finger of his free hand—and curled slightly forward. His pumping rhythm slowed. He reached under his balls. He gulped. Then, gazing right back into Dipper’s eyes, he pushed his middle finger into his anus. He gasped, and Dipper gasped with him in that moment of penetration (out of surprise? out of exhilaration? out of sympathy pain-pleasure?). A low moaning followed from Norman, and a heavy, racing pant from Dipper that might possibly have been the word “Yes …” repeated over and over again.

Because Dipper wondered … What if he were to do *more* than watch this penetration? What if he really were to fill that hole with even more than *all* his fingers, like he wanted? Meaning, what if Dipper were to cross the few steps that separated their beds—the distance that practically was no distance at all between them—to push Norman’s legs wide enough apart that he could stand between them? What if he were to place the tip of his cock right against the tight, pink, perfect opening of that eager hole of Norman’s? What if he were to push it all the way inside him? And then what if he were to pull out just so he could push all the way in again—but faster and harder this time? to start thrusting and retracting and thrusting and retracting? to pound like a jackhammer at Norman’s insides? Norman would love it! He was *already* loving it there, across the room from Dipper, with a finger up his ass and a hand pumping his dick and his mouth hanging open and his eyes fixed on Dipper’s cock as if it were the one thing in the world he had ever or would ever truly want! Imagining the exact same thing—imaging Dipper inside of him—as vividly and longingly as Dipper did … Maybe even more so … Maybe even enough to cum with… with Dipper’s name… to cum with Dipper’s name on his lips, just like the nights before! Oh Great and Terrible Ancient Gods of the Outer Rim, that idea was *so* hot … so, sooo hot …

Too hot! It was *too* hot to hold, like fire in his hand! It was spilling out! But not yet … No, Dipper gritted his teeth and forced himself to hold out from the heat of it a moment longer—long enough to exclaim, “Say my name! Say it, Norm! Say my name *right now*, godsdamn it!”

“D-Dipper!” Norman cried out. “Dipper! Dipper!”

And that was it, the tipping point for the boy with the wavy locks of milk-chocolate hair, yet again. With a vocal eruption “AH!” to match the physical one—double, congruent, parallel ejaculations of pure euphoria—his cum shot up onto his chest and belly. Against his curly layer of body hair, the droplets glistened like pearls on a pillow … transcendent and evanescent … The rest boiled up to spill down his shaft and run over his clenched hand like liquid fire … ardent and incandescent … “Ah … Ah … Oh, gods …”

Meanwhile, like a chain reaction, Norman’s own explosion appeared to have detonated. “*Dipper*—Ah! AH! Aaah ….” But what had been the trigger, exactly? Impossible to tell … Perhaps all the factors were equal contributors—less a chain reaction, more a chemical reaction? Regardless, Norman’s cum streaked across his arched torso as he coaxed the last of it from his dick with a murmured, “*Dipper* … Mmm …”

Then, almost as one, both collapsed back into their respective mattresses. Sank into them, out of breath and out of energy, practically glowing red from the lingering heat in their blood. Save for the sound of two boys breathing heavily, the room was quiet for a long time …

But only because Dipper’s thoughts made no sound … Even the hottest flame gutters out once it has burned up all its fuel, and his faded quickly. Norman might still have been lucent in his blissful afterglow, but he had not been suffering from the same existential angst for weeks before … *all this* … just sorta happened … Just out of nowhere—like, what the heck?! no, what the hell?! no, what the mother****ing mother**** on a holy ****storm sandwich with extra helpings of cluster**** on the side and a tall glass of ****ety cola to wash it all down?!—like it wasn’t unexpected and unplanned and unwanted, even though it was very unexpected and very unplanned and definitely very unwanted (it *was*! it really, really was!). No, for Norman, *all this* was a very sudden and very pleasant surprise (like Fairy-Godmother-showing-up-out-of-nowhere wish fulfillment) … But for Dipper … he knew an unwelcome desire had been sated (just burned away, like a matchwood forest on a granite mountain), but the underlying quandary still remained (immovable, like the granite mountain—unharmed by the scorching heat, and maybe even hardened by it). This had fixed nothing; if anything, this might have made everything worse …

“That was … *amazing* …” Norman confided quietly.

Dipper covered his eyes and tried not to groan. Yep. Everything was definitely worse …

“Best … whatever you call what we just did … Best *that* of my life …”

“Hopping Hades in moon shoes … What have I done?” Dipper murmured at the ceiling.

“Huh? You say something?” Norman asked him dreamily.

“… Nothing,” Dipper replied. “Um … L-look, we should probably just … I mean …”

“Yeah?”

“Uh … No, just good night.” And, suddenly painfully conscious of his own naked body and the sweat and the cum upon it (perhaps more conscious of *the other boy’s* naked body and the sweat and the cum upon *it*), he abruptly rose, turned off the desk light, and fled back into his bed.

“G’night …” Norman purred. Not far away … Not far away at all. And, suddenly, not far enough away, either.

But he was oblivious to Dipper’s sentiment, and almost instantly asleep anyway. So he did not hear Dipper whisper, “What have I done …? I just … How did this happen?! And I just made Norm … How did *that* happen?! … What do I do now? I’ve ruined everything … Ruined. Everything. ****. ****. ****ety-****!”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s the little things which can make one most miserable.

Take a “morning after” talk, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy would consider it a buzzkill (whether giving it or receiving it), and doubly so if it was to or from someone you really actually liked *and* actually really liked (two altogether different matters). There’s just something deflating in the words “about last night” and “it didn’t mean anything”. The feeling of flying high from the night before becomes a feeling of crashing low the next day. Like emotional whiplash. At least one person’s fantasy gets sucker-punched by reality, and it’s just plain painful to be involved in that sucker-punching (no matter which position you’re occupying: the sucker or the puncher … and sometimes both at the same time). So any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy—who happened to know Dipper and Norman had gotten more than a little wild together during the night—would understand why both were so unhappy the next day. They had obviously had one of those “morning after” talks.

But Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy; he knew having a little chat about that night’s …*events* was going to more than just kill Norman Babcock’s buzz because he now understood just how much Norman liked him. One doesn’t do all he had done (and then look at someone the way he had looked at Dipper first thing that morning) unless one really actually likes *and* actually really likes the other person. Dipper understood that saying the little words “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I was sorta … experimenting …” and “I got a bit carried away since y’know I haven’t been able to let off any of … *that* kinda tension *properly* for a while … with a *girl* …” and “You understand, right?” was going to more than just hurt Norman. Even if he *hadn’t* known in advance—even if he’d been so bumblingly stupid as to not predict the logical outcome (like one of those idiot frat boys, who deserve to be swallowed and excreted by Cthulhu, the Grimdark and Darkgrim)—the pain was obvious in Norman’s face as soon as the words had been said. Disappointment, of course, that all the wishes which seemed to be coming true just the night before (despite the fact that he had never dared voice them) were now being shot down so suddenly and systematically. And self-recrimination; Norman was clearly wondering how he could have been so foolish as to think … well, any number of things about himself, about Dipper, and about himself and Dipper together. Also, recrimination against Dipper; anger that Dipper would … would *use* him like that! *Dehumanize* him like that! Make him into a kind of living porno clip or sex toy that could be dismissed and forgotten the next day like he just *didn’t matter*! Hurt Dipper would be so heartless as to do that … Completely miserable in general …

And Dipper, because he knew having that little chat with Norman (or perhaps it was more accurate to call it a little monologue, followed by a swift retreat—one he had been ready to make since before Norman woke, having only slept briefly and fitfully—as he could not bring himself to leave until he had tried to set the record straight … to set *a lot of things* straight …) would cause Norman to be so miserable, was miserable himself. Just because “this could never work—you get that, right?—I mean, I’m not actually into other guys (not that I think there’s anything wrong with that! it’s just … well …) so …” didn’t mean he didn’t care about Norman’s feelings. No, not at all, he frequently reminded himself; on the contrary, it would’ve proved he cared less if he had just … like, led Norman on solely because it was … fun … to do … *things* with him. This was better for Norman in the long run. Better for the both of them. For their friendship. Their totally platonic, nothing-more-than fraternal, not-at-all physical, close but not *that* close friendship … They could be bros and investigative partners and great friends, but not like … husbands or lovers or boyfriends or whatever … That just wasn’t who Dipper was going to be, and it was silly and pointless to even think about … to think about ****ING EVERYTHING that Dipper couldn’t ****ING STOP THINKING ABOUT all through that ****ING MISERABLE ****ING DAY!

At one point, alone in a restroom in the science building, Dipper took a long look at himself in a mirror. “You. Don’t. Even. Want. All … *That*. With. Him,” he told himself.

But even he thought he looked like a liar. What’s worse, he *felt* like a liar, too.

He groaned a long profanity, “************************************ …” before going in search of some substandard dinner on campus.

It was dark outside, and the air was cold. More than cold—frigid … like only January knows how to be, for it mixes an unhealthy dose of bleakness into the cold and injects it straight into your bones. A barely baked personal pizza and a just above tepid coffee from the on-campus Mom’s Café (“Just shut up and eat it, kids.”) did absolutely nothing to dispel this January chill. What they did do, though, was make Dipper recall the piles of blankets back in the dorm room, the cans of soup he and Norman had bought cheap in bulk then stashed under their beds (with an eclectic collection of cooking utensils and other non-perishable foodstuffs), and the milk and cocoa in their mini-fridge; if he were back home now, Norman would put one of their little pots on the hot plate to make some piping hot chocolate, then two cans of soup into the other little pot (complete with a “secret blend of herbs and spices” that was mostly basil, a little bit of rosemary, and a pinch of cayenne … it’s what Norman always added to the soup, pasta sauce, ramen, risotto, and fried meats he cooked—*always*) to swap out the first until the soup boiled a little, and then they would wrap up in blankets to share the hot soup and hot chocolate while watching something off youtube or Netflix together … or talking about their next investigation together … or just talking about anything and everything and nothing together (instead of doing homework, of course) … and they would be warm and comfortable and happy and … and together … Maybe they would even snuggle together for extra warmth. Maybe they would even forget whatever they were doing and start to …

Dipper sighed. He rose and left the café (too distracted to bus his empty carton and cup, despite the stern sign warning that “Mom shouldn’t have to clear the table after grown-up kids.”) But not for Dorm H. He couldn’t go back there, he decided; not that night, at least—too awkward the way things currently were … Instead, he headed for the library. The fact that it would close soon was of little consequence, given that he had a key to every building in America. All the same, though, he skulked about the more remote shelves until everyone had left, then (wanting to stave off the chill that suffused the voluminous building) made a small fort of study tables around one heating vent. If the thin carpet made a substandard mattress, and his backpack a substandard pillow, at least this little iglooed space was warm enough to spend a night in. Thank the Elder Gods for those survival lessons he’d learned in the forests of Gravity Falls …

Unsurprisingly, sleep did not come easily; it eluded Dipper for what felt like an eternity. And the longer he tossed and turned on that hard floor and his book-filled backpack, the more he thought longingly of his soft bed … softer bed, at least. The University hadn’t exactly splurged on the dormitory mattresses, but they still beat sleeping on the floor. Norman was lounging in luxury, by comparison. Wrapped up nice and cozy … Hopefully, at least; Dipper did not like the idea of Norman spending the night somewhere like … well, like *here* in the library out of fear that Dipper might return to the room and make everything awkward. It was worth sleeping here if at least Norman could have a good night’s sleep free of Dipper’s weird, angsty awkwardness. Yes, he definitely preferred thinking of Norman safe and snug in his bed … his body, long and lanky, stretched out under the covers, luxuriating in the warmth … Maybe getting too hot, even; maybe needing to shed his shirt and shorts to keep the comfort level just right. But clean sheets and a soft blanket against bare skin—every movement bringing more cloth and skin into contact like a caress—was easily one of the most sensuous sensations in existence. Like that, there was a part of Norman’s body that would get longer. A part of his body that would get warmer, until it was too hot all over again. And what could he do then, except cast off the blankets (exposing all of his body to the tinglingly cooler air) to cool down? But it wouldn’t be enough, of course not; his dick would stay long and hard and hot until it got the attention such a dick deserved. So Dipper would just have to take it in hand, and Norman would moan his name as Dipper rolled on top of him—

Thunk! Dipper opened his eyes to darkness and disorientation. “Wait, what?” The former remained, but the latter faded fast: he was not in his room, but in his library igloo; he was not with Norman (both of them naked, erect, and ready to do … *something* about that situation), but alone (and clothed… though just as erect as he had apparently been dreaming). “Oh yeah …” he intoned in a way that an outside observer might have called disappointed. “Probably not doing that tonight … And if he is, he probably isn’t gonna be saying my name—not ever again … Not that I can blame him …”

Dipper sighed, then shifted. But that failed to alleviate his discomfort. Resignedly, he adjusted himself. But *that* was just not enough. Muttering, “Traitor …” he unzipped his fly and liberated the cock straining against it. But that hardly settled the real matter, either. “You’re not gonna let me go back to sleep, are you?” he grumbled at it. “Fine …” So he wrapped his hand around it—so hard it throbbed with a life of its own, so hot it felt like a fever one never wanted healed—and stroked it with all the force of his frustration. He tried not to think of anything else while he did, but … unbidden memories and fantasies from the night before mingled together in the red flashes behind his closed eyes. Images of Norman, and images of himself with Norman. While he banished one, another blossomed behind his consciousness. Like fireworks he could not douse, not until the last one fountained out white and shimmering from his body. It splattered against the wall to his side, and he wiped his hand clean (or as near it as he could tell in the dark) on the abrasive fibers of the carpet before rolling back the other way. Not that he could see … the fluid stains in the dark, but he hardly felt like facing his shame (invisible or otherwise). Nor the unacceptable feelings it represented. Because, he told himself for the hundredth time, there couldn’t be a future like … *this*! There just couldn’t be … It wasn’t possible … And it was just silly and pointless to even think about it—silly and pointless and … and *not him* …

That was his final thought before he fell asleep, and probably the reason why he dreamed about a second Dipper running around campus. Everywhere he went, the second Dipper had been there already … with *Norman*. And the two of them had been doing things that he (the *real* Dipper) would never *ever* do, like drinking and partying and stealing campus groundskeeping golf carts and setting things on fire and having sex in public—things that just were *not him*.

The dream left him feeling vaguely muddled, as though disconnected from the world and his own body. As though he still were not himself. For example, he was indistinctly aware that he had a headache and a myriad of sore and stiff spots across his back and sides, yet he could not entirely feel the pain of them. It was almost like he was a passenger in the backseat of his body while it moved on autopilot … or someone else was at the wheel—someone who was *not him*. What’s more, he realized in befuddlement that he just rolled out from the study table igloo without putting the constituent pieces away. Heck, he went down a row of bookshelves before noticing that his penis was still hanging out the fly of his jeans (even then, it was another half-row before he sluggishly pushed it back under his clothes … and he was never entirely sure that he had zipped his pants back up after it). Another cup of just above tepid coffee and a bagel of dubious freshness did little to bring him back to the world and himself; all through his meager meal, he could barely string two thoughts together. He had no idea what he was going to do—what he was even supposed to do *that day* (class, maybe? did he even have class? what day was it? which classes was he even supposed to attend that day?), let alone … *after* that day … In point of fact, the only thing that brought him back to the world (but not necessarily himself) was when he collided with Norman just outside the café. There was a moment of mutual apology before either knew who it was they had run into, followed by shocked silence once they had; they both just stood there, a blush blooming in their faces until they were as red as a pair of maraschino cherries.

Eventually, Norman stammered out in a would-be-casual tone, “So … you d-didn’t come back home last night.”

“Um …”

“I was … w-worried.”

“Um …”

“D-don’t know *why*, but …”

“Um …”

“There a ch-chance you’re coming back tonight?”

“I … I gotta go now!” Dipper squeaked. And then he lurched around on his heel and fled blindly into the stream of students going to their classes.

“W-Wait!” Norman shouted after him. “We gotta t-talk about this, Dipper! At least … AT LEAST ZIP UP YOUR PANTS, YOU MORON!”

It wasn’t until Dipper reached his first class of the day that he stopped running (or zipped up his pants). It wasn’t until he was seated near the back, huffing and sweating, that he started considering just how ridiculous he had just been. Running off like that just because he’d bumped (literally) into Norman, he chided himself. Getting all tongue-tied, blushing like a 12-year-old … He could keep his cool in the face of monsters and mayhem, but *one little, unwanted gay crush* challenging his central persona, and he went to pieces! What an embarrassment for the true him! What a disappointment to the character at his core—the *real* Dipper he tried to be! “This isn’t like me at all!” he muttered while the professor prattled on about forensic psychological analysis. “It’s just … It’s just …*not me* …” And then he froze. A sudden epiphany fired in his brain: that was it! THAT WAS IT! IT NEVER WAS *HIM*! Like an internal crowing of Eureka, he concluded that this … this gayness really wasn’t coming from inside *him*—it was *not him* who had been gay—but from outside of him! When he had ranted internally that Norman had done this to him, he had been right! NORMAN REALLY HAD MADE HIM FEEL THIS WAY! Somehow, someway—probably *supernaturally*—which meant that Norman’s ability to see ghosts was probably a byproduct of being some sort of supernatural creature which could exert unnatural attractions upon even the straightest of men LIKE DIPPER!

And he was on his feet, shouting elatedly, “LEAPING LOKI IN A BOUNCY HOUSE! IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!”

Still indicating a crucial detail on the powerpoint, the professor stared at the behatted boy. With pens and pencils hovering over their notes, the other students all stared at the behatted boy. The entire classroom all stared at the behatted boy.

But Dipper was too giddy with relief for such a triviality to slow him down. He was already gathering all his stuff back into his backpack and flurrying towards the door, whooping like a madman, “IT ALL MAKES SENSE! IT ALL MAKES SENSE! I MUST GO! I MUST SOLVE THE INVESTIGATION!” And then he was gone.

After a moment, the professor cleared their throat. “You see? Do the reading *before* class, and you get a ton more of my lectures.”

****

It’s the little things which can change one’s perspective of everything—including oneself.

Take sneaking into a women’s dorm, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy could tell you it revealed a lot about a man: if he was sloppy and easily distracted, or focused and goal-oriented; if he needed the excited attention of a spotlight, or could stay behind the scenes and not get caught; if he preferred working as part of a team, or as a lone operator; and above all, if he was a pig who would try to steal some poor girl’s panties, or a human being whose intent in sneaking into the women’s dorm was to talk with one of the women (like an actual, equal human being). They tended to be the former in all of these cases. They tended to be extremely sloppy, attention-seeking, herd animals with only women’s undergarments on their minds (supposedly in a “no homo” way). The panty raid was practically a rite of passage for them, and proof that they were just neanderthals lumbering around in the modern-day.

But Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy (he couldn’t even drink a single beer without vomiting in self-loathing, frat-loathing, and a possible hops allergy), which is probably why his goal for sneaking into the women’s dorm was to talk with his *sister*. Besides that, he was extremely focused and goal-oriented (he knew why he needed to talk with her—and wasn’t going to be distracted by anything else—knew where her room was, when she would be there, and how he would enter and exit unseen), extremely adept at not getting caught (stealth was part of the goal here), only worked on teams if they were comprised of people he trusted (of whom there were exactly two on campus, one of whom he was sneaking in to see), and prided himself on *NOT* being a misogynist pig.

This is what led him, under cover of winter darkness, around the backside of Dorm F at about 8:30 pm. Then, throwing snowballs at the window five from the right and three up, he got his sister to look out the window. A second later, she was pushing it open and calling down, “Dipper? What are you doing here?”

“I need to t-talk with you.”

“Why didn’t you just call me?”

“… M-my phone’s dead,” he admitted sheepishly. “Haven’t been able to ch-charge it since l-last night.”

“Okay …” she said slowly. “I’ll be right down. We can go get a coffee.”

“No, we n-need to talk here.”

“Why?”

“Because your r-room is going to have _real_ food in it and actually be w-_warm_.”

“Not if I keep my window open like this.”

“Then throw d-down your grappling hook and st-stop wasting time!” he retorted testily. “C’mon, Mabel, I’m fr-freezing out here!”

She muttered something inaudible at that distance (though it sounded recriminating), then ducked away long enough to grab the tool in question. An instant later, it was tossed down, and he was heaving himself over the third-story windowsill. “What’s this about, Bro-Bro?” she then asked, closing the window.

“F-food first …” he stipulated, shivering. “S-soup and hot ch-chocolate …”

With a sigh, she accommodated him; he really did look more malnourished than usual. But then, she sat down across from him and insisted, “Now what’s up, Dip-Doc?”

Her brother hesitated. He swished his soup around. He cleared his throat. Oddly enough, starting the conversation he had come expressly to have was more awkward than anticipated. “Um … I … I think I’ve got … er … a new investigation for us. For the Mystery *Twins*. Possible Siren or Kitsune, maybe? Something with … magic seductive powers …” he finished in a rushed undertone.

“Really? What’s Norman think?”

“I … I haven’t talked with him about it …”

“Yeah, he mentioned that you guys weren’t talking,” Mabel said archly. “Said you’ve been acting weird since yesterday morning, and he hasn’t seen you since.”

Looking away, Dipper stated, “We saw each other this morning.”

“Yeah, and he said you wouldn’t talk to him and ran off. Like a scared little kitten.”

Dipper bristled. “He said *that*?!”

“No, he just said ‘ran off’. The rest was my guesstimation. I got the impression that you two were fighting, and I know how much of a Dipstick you are when—”

Dipper flushed. “We were *not* fighting!”

“No? Then why didn’t you go back to your dorm last night?” Mabel challenged him.

The flush brightened. “It … has to do with this investigation.”

“Of this possible Siren or Kitsune or something with ‘magic seductive powers’?”

“Yes …” he admitted uncomfortably. “Could also be a Fai—”

“Did it seduce *you*? Is that why you two are fighting? Is he being jealous?”

“I—We aren’t—Why would he be—”

“I mean, if it was magic,” Mabel continued reasonably, “you weren’t cheating on him. Kinda unreasonable to be—”

Dipper nearly choked on his soup. “Cheating?! I wasn’t—I *couldn’t*, because we aren’t even together! Where’d you even—”

Confused, Mabel interjected, “Wait, you two *aren’t* together?”

“*NO*! WHY WOULD YOU THINK WE ARE?!”

“Uh … Hello? Have you seen the way you two are together? And have been for *months*? That’s why.”

For a moment, Dipper just sat there, with a thousand different responses trying to force themselves out of his mouth all at once. It made for a rather incoherent, babbling sound.

Then his sister inquired, somewhat disbelievingly, “So you two aren’t even banging yet?”

“FAUWEIUHKJNFRNEIASEASRT!”

“Is that a ‘no’ or a ‘yes’ or a ‘it’s complicated’?”

“QUGDASBJSMMISGSPLECGTR!”

“Ah … So it’s complicated,” she surmised sagely. Then, with one of her bursts of unnervingly accurate intuition, she asked, “Wait, does this mean you guys finally started banging *two nights ago*?”

“BNHUJMMKASLQWRYHNDPSL!”

She was across the room in a second, shaking him elatedly by the shoulders. “O! M! G! CONGRATULATIONS! I’M SO HAPPY AND PROUD OF YOU GUYS!”

All the things Dipper wanted to say at once made way for the most important statement: “WE DIDN’T *TECHNICALLY* BANG!”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I’m *NOT* gay!” he protested.

“Well, yeah,” she agreed, as though this were obvious. “Except for *him*!”

“NO, I’M NOT! OR RATHER, I AM … AND THAT’S THE ****ING POINT!”

Mabel blinked twice in confusion. She opened her mouth to speak, but then was interrupted by a knock at the door. Both twins turned to see a gaggle of college girls peeking into the room.

“Hey … You sneak another boy in here, Mabe-Babe?”

“Oooo! Is he cute? Can I see him?”

“Either way, you better keep the screamer sex down before someone goes and complains to Stabatha.”

Both twins made a face at that. “He’s my *brother*. Ew.”

“Really? If you ask me, that wouldn’t stop me if my brother was as cute as yours.”

“Nobody asked you, Alabama Betty.”

“Important question here, Mabe-Babe: Is this one up for grabs?”

Shooing them away, Mabel replied, “Nah, he’s got a boyfriend.”

There was a disappointed chorus of “Awwww …” sounds. Then Dipper hotly protested, “I do *not*!” Which unleashed a chorus of sympathetic “Awwww …” sounds (featuring a solo performance of “Yeah, we know how that goes, honey …”).

Mabel was at the door by this point, trying to force it closed. “Look, ladies, this is clearly going to be a complex, emotional conversation here. Give us some privacy, and make sure Stabatha doesn’t find out about him. Okay? Okay! Thanks.” When she turned back around, it was to find her brother glaring at her. “Okay, first of all: No glaring,” she chided him. “Because it was *you* who came grappling hooking into *my* room asking for help.”

“You haven’t exactly been helpful,” he grumbled.

“Second of all: Language! Don’t ****ing swear in my dorm! And definitely don’t *yell* if you are going to ****ing swear. There are ladies present who might overhear, because they’re all nosy *****es who can’t mind their own business, and really need to stop living vicariously through me—OR AT LEAST BE MORE INCONSPICUOUS WHEN THEY LISTEN OUTSIDE MY DOOR!” she shouted back over her shoulder.

There was a noise from the hallway, almost like six girls scurrying in different directions.

Mabel then turned back to her brother. “Third of all: You didn’t *technically* bang? What does that mean? Does that mean you only, like, blew each other?”

Soup came spewing from Dipper’s mouth. A solid twenty seconds of hacking on chicken noodles followed before he, scandalized, could shrill, “Mabel! Don’t say such things!”

“Because, personally, I think that still counts as banging—” his sister mused aloud.

“Mabel! Stop!”

“—but about half the girls in this dorm would probably disagree with me, so—”

“Mabel! Please!”

“—I guess you could *technically* get away with not calling that ‘bang—”

“Gods above! We didn’t even do that!” Dipper exclaimed.

“Seriously? Well then, tell me you guys at least fingered each other.”

“Gah! No!”

“Handjobs while making out?”

“No! Stop! I don’t *ever* wanna discuss what I do or don’t do in bed with _*_my sister*!”

With a shake of her head, Mabel pronounced her judgment, “I’ll be honest, it sounds like we’ve ruled out anything that’d come close to a sexual experience, let alone banging. I rescind my congratulations. Also, I don’t really get how he could justify being jealous enough to fight.”

“Godsdamnit, Mabel …” Dipper sighed in exasperation.

“Unless you were fighting over specifically *not* having sex?” she theorized uncertainly. “You weren’t such a douche that you pressured him for sex before he felt ready, were you?”

“Wow … I don’t even know which part of that to be offended over first …” Dipper said, overwhelmed by the prospects. So, as was his habit when feeling overwhelmed, he started making a list. “That you’re still prying into my … bedding habits, despite being my sister (thus making this whole topic grosser than a supermarket)? That you’d assume I (your own brother, who you’ve known for two decades) would even be capable of such awesome douchebaggery? Maybe the underlying misassumption (despite the evidence of two ex-girlfriends) that I’m gay? Because, I reiterate: I. Am. *NOT*. Gay.”

“‘Or rather, you are … And that’s the ****ing point’? Mabel quoted at him.

“That could be what I should be offended over first,” Dipper stated thoughtfully. “You being deliberately obtuse (I suspect just to upset me).”

She grinned. “I would *never* do that.”

Dipper just shook his head, exasperated. “Who is this ‘Stabatha’?” he inquired coldly.

“Dorm Super. We call her that because she stabs any boys she catches sneaking in here. So … You couldn’t be cheating on Norm if you aren’t even together, so why are you fighting?

“We’re not—”

“Is it because he’s jealous *anyway* of you getting seduced by that Siren or Kitsune?”

“Oh, for the love of … Mabel, he *IS* the Siren! Or Kitsune, maybe!”

His sister blinked twice again. “… What?”

“I suspect Norman is a Siren or Kitsune,” Dipper said succinctly. “Or part one, at least.”

“Why? Because he made you gay?”

Dipper bristled, “No, I—” Then with visible effort, he stopped himself and recommenced in a rational voice, “Yes. Basically … Until he came into my life, I liked girls and *only* girls. This is a fact, because I remember jac … um … Suffice to say, I fantasized about different girls on a daily basis … usually more than once … Never guys. *Never*. Now … I only like *him*. Norman’s all I can think about, and …” Flushing again, he forced himself to admit, “H-he’s the only person I want to … to *be* with.”

In spite of her best efforts, Mabel grinned. “Sounds like somebody’s in—”

“Don’t say it!” he snapped. “This isn’t *real* love. It *can’t* be real love. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yep, ‘cause love is all about what makes sense,” she retorted sarcastically. “Seriously, Bro-Bro, sounds like you’re in—”

“That’s why,” Dipper doggedly said over her, “it *must* be some sorta magic seduction. Hence him being at least part Siren or Kitsune.”

“Now, *that* doesn’t make any sense,” his sister riposted. “His family isn’t Greek.”

“Kitsune, then.”

“His family is even less Japanese than Greek, Dipstick. Norm-Norm’s family is *Irish*.”

Undeterred, Dipper asserted, “Which means, then, that this is technically probably some sorta glamor, and Norman is part Fairy of some kind—the irony of which is not lost on me, so please don’t bother pointing it out.”

“Or fourth option is he’s a regular human,” Mabel offered with exaggerated reasonability. “And you’re just in regular love with him—”

“Nope.”

“—because he is super cute—”

“Nope.”

“—a great guy, shares all your interests (no matter how dorky, nerdy, or geeky)—”

“Nope.”

“—is really smart, and is (not to put too fine a point on it) super cute.”

“Not possible.”

“Dipstick, why is it so impossible that you could fall in love with somebody like that?” Mabel demanded. “Because, to me, it sounds like your ideal match.”

Pounding the bed with a fist, Dipper snapped, “Because *I* am not that kinda person! That’s not what the *real* Dipper is like!”

“What kind?” his sister challenged him.

“Gay, Mabel! How many times do I gotta say it! I! AM! NOT! GAY! Not the *real* me! So if I’m feeling this way, *he must* be doing something supernatural to me!”

Before any rebuttal could be made, however, the door burst inward—kicked by a woman with the legs of a defensive lineman, the shoulders of a Greco-Roman wrestler, the sensible and shoulder-length hair of a career academic, and the knife of a deep wilderness big game hunter. “MALE!” she bellowed. “IN THE WOMEN’S DORM!”

Either terror or the blast wave that had propulsed the door open pinned the behatted boy in the far corner. “HOLY **** KNIFE ON A SANDWICH!” he exclaimed.

Mabel was instantly between her brother and the Dorm Super, arms spread defensively. “Miss Tabatha, please don’t eviscerate him!”

“I thought you were joking about the stabbing thing!” Dipper shouted at her accusingly.

“Why would I joke about a stabbing thing?!” Mabel shouted back at him. “I’m not a freakin’ psychopath!”

“THE MALE IS NOT ALLOWED TO BE IN HERE!” Stabatha—aka: Miss Tabatha; aka: the Dorm Super—continued to bellow. “HE MUST LEAVE, OR SUFFER THE BLADE!”

“Please?” Mabel interceded with the grim, knife-wielding arbiter of university policy. “He’s just my brother! And he’s not here for any of the girls! He needed to talk to me because he’s having an existential crisis about his sexuality, because he’s in love with another guy!”

Turning to Dipper (who, understandably, cowered before her like a rabbit would cower before a wolverine with a combine harvester), Stabatha demanded, “IS THIS TRUE, MALE?”

“Uh, well … I don’t know if l-love is the, er, right word, because—”

“YOU HAVE FEELINGS FOR ANOTHER BOY? YES OR NO!”

“Yes! Yes! I admit it! Just stop brandishing that thing at me, please!”

“HMM …” Stabatha deliberated. “THEN I SHALL PERMIT YOUR PRESENCE, GIVEN THAT YOU CLEARLY POSE NO DANGER TO MY LADIES.”

In spite of his terror, Dipper’s pride piped up, “I object to that! I *am* a danger to them! I’m a real lady-killer! I just happen to be … confused about one, very specific guy! That doesn’t make me gay!”

“NO, INDEED IT SOUNDS AS THOUGH YOU ARE BI.”

This time, Dipper blinked twice. “… What?”

“She said you sound bi-sexual. Doi!” Mabel added in that way that only siblings can. “What? Did it never occur to you there was a third option? Gah! You’re supposed to be smart!”

“THOUGH I FEEL INCLINED TO INQUIRE, WHAT EXACTLY IS THE PROBLEM WITH BEING GAY?”

“It’s … I’m just not like … *that*,” Dipper answered defensively.

“LIKE WHAT, EXACTLY? PLEASE EXPLAIN WHAT ‘GAY’ MEANS?”

“Like, I dunno … promiscuous or a partier—with lots of booze and drugs,” he answered in a small, abashed voice. “Or a drama queen attention whore … or effeminate … That’s not me. I’m not … basically some effeminate frat boy.”

“THIS IS WHAT YOU THINK ‘GAY’ MEANS?”

“D-doesn’t everybody?”

Stabatha heaved a sigh like a tropical storm. “I HAVE LITTLE TIME, SO I SHALL CONDENSE A GENDER STUDIES COURSE INTO A BRIEF EXORTATION FOR YOU: YOU CANNOT BE BLAMED FOR BELIEVING WHAT YOUR SOCIETY—THROUGH NON-REPRESENTATIVE MEDIA, LINGUISTICALLY-ENCODED PREJUDICES, AND DISENFRANCHISINGLY DRACONIAN SOCIAL CONVENTIONS VIS-À-VIS GENDER, RACE, *AND* CLASS (ALL REPLETE WITH THE BASEST OF BASE STEREPTYOES)—HAS TAUGHT YOU … BUT, NO, BEING ‘GAY’ DOES *NOT* MEAN BEING ALL THAT YOU DESCRIBED.”

“Yeah, but …”

“LISTEN, MALE, AND LISTEN WELL! HOMOSEXUALITY IS A PREFERENCE IN SEXUAL PARTNERS, WHILE GAYNESS IS A CULTURE—A SOCIOLOGY ONLY THEORETICALLY CONNECTED TO SEXUAL PREFERENCE. ONE CAN BE *BOTH* HOMOSEXUAL AND STRAIGHT; ONE CAN BE *BOTH* HETEROSEXUAL AND GAY. AND ONE CAN BE ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN AND BEYOND! WHO AND WHAT YOU FIND ATTRACTIVE DO NOT SHAPE YOUR PERSONALITY; THEY ARE MERE *FACETS* OF YOUR PERSONALITY, NOT ITS DETERMINANTS.”

“Maybe, but … that’s not what everyone else thinks …”

“AND? WILL YOU LIVE YOUR LIFE ACCORDING TO THE MISCONCEPTIONS AND UNEDUCATED JUDGMENTS OF OTHERS?” Stabatha rhetoricized most pointedly (given that she did it while holding a big-ass knife). “WILL YOU SHORTCHANGE YOUR OWN HAPPINESS TO APPEASE THE BIGOTRY OF SMALL-MINDED FOOLS? ARE YOU SO SPINELESS? SO FOOLISH? IS *THAT* WHAT YOU ARE LIKE, MALE?”

“NO! I’M … Heh … When you put it like *that* …” Dipper said self-deprecatingly.

“BE WHAT AND WHO *YOU* WISH TO BE, NOT WHAT AND WHO *OTHERS* THINK YOU OUGHT TO BE. THEY ARE NOT WORTH YOUR OWN HAPPINESS.”

For a moment, the behatted boy sat there with bowed head. Deep in thought. Eventually, he uttered aloud, “So … bi, huh?”

“IT WOULD APPEAR SO, IF YOU FIND WOMEN SEXUALLY ATTRACTIVE *AND* THIS OTHER YOUNG MAN. YOU DO FIND HIM ATTRACTIVE, DO YOU NOT?”

Mabel leapt in joshingly, “Yeah, Dipper! You *do* find him attractive, do you not?”

Dipper blushed. “I … um …”

“WELL?”

“Okay, yes!” he conceded. “Though it’s still suspic—”

“DO YOU LOVE HIM?”

“Yeah, Dipper, do you *loooooove* him?” Mabel chorused joshingly.

Dipper’s blush deepened. “I … Well, ‘love’ is a—”

“DO NOT BALK FROM YOUR OWN FEELINGS, MALE! DO YOU LOVE HIM?! YES OR NO?!” Stabatha bellowed with an emphatic wave of her knife.

“I think so!” Dipper shouted placatingly. “I’m not really sure!”

“IS HE DIFFERENT FROM EVERYONE ELSE YOU’VE EVER MET?!”

“… Yes!”

“SMART? FUNNY? CARING? SPECIAL?”

“… Yes!”

“IS HE ALL YOU THINK ABOUT?!”

“Yes!”

“DO YOU WANT TO BE WITH HIM MORE THAN ANYTHING?!”

“Yes!”

“THEN YOU MUST GO TO HIM, MALE! YOU MUST ACT ON YOUR FEELINGS! DISCOVER FOR YOURSELF IF YOU TRULY LOVE HIM! ARE YOU NOT IN COLLEGE? IS NOT COLLEGE THE TIME FOR EXPERIMENTATION AND SELF-DISCOVERY? THEN EXPERIMENT, MALE, WITHOUT FEAR OF WHAT OTHERS MAY THINK!”

Without realizing it, Dipper was on his feet and exultant. “O-okay! Yes! Right!”

Mabel was also on her feet, clapping joyfully. “Wooo! Go get that spooky pookie!”

“EXACTLY! GO GET HIM! MEANING: GET OUT OF MY DORM AND DO NOT EVER RETURN, LEST I BE OBLIGED TO DISEMBOWEL YOU.”

“Er … Yes, ma’am. Do I have to exit by grappling hook, or may I take the stairs?”

Stabatha rolled her eyes, and then made a curt (but unnervingly slash-like) gesture towards the stairs. “GO. BEGONE.”

“You, um, think you could put the knife away, please?”

“NO.”

“Fair enough …”

“I’ll walk you down, Bro-Bro,” Mabel offered. “She … *probably* won’t stab you if I’m there.”

“*YOU* BROUGHT THE MALE INTO OUR DORM. I WOULD ADVISE YOU NOT MAKE PRESUMPTIONS, GIVEN YOUR VIOLATION OF OUR MOST SACRED RULE.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mabel accepted meekly.

As they descended the stairs, Dipper contended to his sister, “Y’know, this doesn’t mean I’m wrong about my feelings being supernaturally induced. He could still be part Fairy.”

“True. Though this also means that it doesn’t matter *why* you like him, since you do,” Mabel countered her brother smugly. “Doesn’t matter *why* you’re bi, since you are.” Then, they were out the main entrance, and (after Stabatha made a gesture that was either a fond wave or a brandishing menace to the behatted boy), Mabel asked, “So what’s next?”

Feeling a little lost, Dipper looked around at the January snow; he hadn’t planned on things going this direction, so he wasn’t sure quite what to do. “I … guess I’ll go back there … Then apologize. Then … talk with Norman about what happens next? If he’s willing … I guess we’ll experiment together and see where things go?”

“Meaning ‘bang each other like gongs’?”

“Mabel!”

“But that’s totally what you mean, right?”

“… More or less,” he admitted. “Though, for the record, I did mean more than just … *ahem* banging.”

“Ooooo! Sounds like somebody’s in—”

“Stop! Anyway … I also need to do a lot of thinking …” the behatted boy introspected. “About that stuff Stabatha said. Seriously, for a terrifying, knife-wielding maniac, what she said was really deep …”

“Heh. She didn’t even rip in to you about the sexist implications of what you said.”

“Huh? I didn’t say anything against women.”

“Didn’t you, Bro-Bro? Didn’t you?” she asked leadingly. “Think about it. Think about what you said being ‘gay’ means. That’ll give you some deeper stuff to consider.”

Dipper shrugged. “If you say so. I’ll think about all that, too.”

“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow, Bro-Bro?”

“Yeah, talk to you then.”

As her brother walked off into the night, she suddenly called after him, “Hey, Dipper? Just want you to know that I love you and support you! You can always count on that!”

“Heh. Thanks, Mabel. I appreciate that.”

“And, for the record …” But she hesitated, clearly somewhat nervous.

“What? What’s up?”

“For the record … just know that you aren’t the only Pines who’s bi.”

Dipper blinked twice. “… What?”

“*I* am, too, Dipstick!” she lilted. “Also, so were Gruncle Stan and Gruncle Ford!”

“… Seriously?” her brother mouthed dumbly. “I … I had no idea.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly make it public knowledge when I was going out with a girl—never told you about those dates me and Pacifica went on.”

Dipper’s jaw dropped. “Wait, what? *You and Pacifica Northwest*?”

“Or that I’ve gone out with this one girl, Vivienne, a couple times.”

“I’m sorry, but … you *and* Pacifica?”

“I should introduce you to Viv,” Mabel suddenly said thoughtfully. “You’d like her. She’s Quebecoise, and has got a great pair of knockers. Like, wow.”

“You … and *Paz* dated?

“That’s what I said. Just a couple times—see if we liked it. But, anywho, it’s freezing, I’m tired, and you need to go apologize to your boyfriend. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow, like we said,” Mabel declared briskly. “G’night!”

“*You* and Paz? Together?”

His sister just rolled her eyes and shut the door to Dorm F.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s the little things which are often the most important.

Take an apology, for instance. Any knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy can say the words “I’m sorry”. Even they (though they barely qualify as functioning members of society) recognize that sometimes a person must acknowledge their own mistakes and express regret over having made them in the first place. Or at least feign doing so, out of the necessity of performing all basic ritualized social conventions which are a prerequisite to being allowed to function within a society. Granted, they probably wouldn’t use such an anthropologically precise jargon when explaining why people must occasionally apologize, but even they would understand that apologizing is just something you do if you want people to keep speaking to you. Relationships end over someone not saying the words “I’m sorry” at the right time.

But Dipper Pines was no knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boy; he was actually capable of using precise jargon to express his ideas, and hardly ever had to resort to grunting and pointing while doing so. What’s more, he understood the words “I’m sorry” did *not* constitute some sort of magical incantation that would fix all the problems between two (or more) people. It wouldn’t be enough to simply tell Norman he was sorry; it wouldn’t even be enough to mean it when he said it. No, if Dipper wanted Norman to forgive him (which he did)—if he wanted Norman to acquiesce to perpetuate, even deepen, their relationship (which he did)—he would have to convey that he understood exactly *why* he was apologizing now. It was time to own up to his mistakes. Time to show he could learn from them.

The distance from Dorm F to Dorm H wasn’t long enough to formulate a proper apology (especially when walked at a brisk it’s-fr-freezing-out-here pace) to Dipper’s mind. Then again, a full week probably wouldn’t have felt like enough time to properly formulate and rehearse one. Not for him. “Which … is probably for the best,” he mumbled to himself during the walk back. “Probably better this be … one of those from-the-heart kinda conversations …” It was, however, just long enough for him to assess the key points of the apology he needed to make. He realized that he was sorry for … quite a lot.

And that was his attitude when he finally opened the door to their dorm room.

Norman, who had been pacing, was standing in the middle of the room. He turned to look at Dipper, but then just stood there when he did. Eventually, he said, “… Hey.”

“Hey …”

“I s-see you didn’t freeze to death,” Norman observed. “That’s good, I guess …”

“Heh. Yeah, I guess …” Dipper agreed lamely. “Can I … Do you mind if I come in?”

Forcing aloofness, the taller boy shrugged and turned away. “Your room, too. But I’m uh trying to do homework now,” he said, choosing to sit at his desk and his unbooted computer (with his back eloquently turned to the behatted boy). “So … k-keep it down, or whatever.”

Dipper opened his mouth, as if to speak. Then he closed it again. He hadn’t expected a reception quite like this. Distant and indifferent. Somehow, he’d figured it’d be easier to begin excoriating himself; now he had no idea quite what to say. His hands fidgeted reflexively. He pulled off his cap and grasped it in his hands. “H-how you been?” he muttered into his cap.

“Hmm?”

“I said, ‘how you been?’,” he repeated, though still into his cap.

Still not looking at him, Norman made a face, then shrugged. “Dandy. Just dandy. Having the place to m-myself is sorta nice … Lots of privacy … No one to k-keep up at night—or keep *me* up with … with their weird experimenting. You understand, right?” he added, perhaps a little bitingly.

“Y-yeah …” The cap was practically in front of Dipper’s face now, a veil or a shield. Knowing he deserved this didn’t make it any easier, though he wondered vaguely why he had thought it would be easier at all.

For a moment, Norman said nothing. It was as if he was waiting for more. But, when nothing else was ventured, he decided (finally) to actually turn on his computer. To make a show of doing homework. His gesture was curt when he did—curt and disgusted.

Dipper’s grip on his cap tightened. “C’mon …” he mouthed into it. “S-say it …”

“You say something?” Norman snapped over his shoulder.

“N-no …” Dipper quailed. Then, with a supreme effort, he added, “But … I sh-should. Um … What I should say is … is … uh …”

“What?” the Medium demanded, decidedly keeping his back to the other boy.

“It’s, uh … Well … It’s h-hard to say.”

With a sigh, Norman slouched low in his chair. Defeated. “It’s okay. Y-you … don’t have to say it. If y-you want me to move out—”

“Wait, what?”

“—I can start in the morn—”

Without meaning to do so, Dipper crossed the small room—letting his cap fall as he did. Then he was behind Norman, and his hands (seemingly of their own volition) clapped down on his shoulders. Keeping him in place. Keeping him in his chair and in his room… in *their* room. Not letting him leave.

Surprised, the Medium stammered, “W-what’re you—”

“I *don’t* want you to move out.”

Norman tried to shift around, but Dipper’s hands held him still. Then, as if by nervous reflex, they began to clasp and unclasp in disjointed rhythm. “Ah!” Norman gasped once. And then again and again, though less surprised and pained each time. “Ah. Ah … Ah … ah …”

Behind the Medium, as the disjointed rhythm smoothed to a halfway decent shoulder rub, the other boy cleared his throat. “J-just … hold still for a bit, okay? Th-this is hard for me to say, and … and having something to do with my hands helps. Okay?”

“Ahlright … I’m lahistening …”

For a moment, Dipper’s jaw worked around as hard as his hands. Like them, however, that initial, clumsy movement seemed the hardest; after that, it eased. It became smoother. “There’re t-wo things that … um … which I sh-should say to you. The f-first is that I’m sorry. Real sorry. For how I acted—for what I said—to you after … um …”

“You, ah, experimentahd?” Norman prompted.

“Y-yes. Experimented, uh … with you. Experimented *with* you. And I’m sorry because that … that was … basically using you, y’know? Like you were a … just a thing. Uncool of me. Real crappy thing to do. M-must’ve made you feel terrible. Dehumanized. Like a th-thing. Sorry for that.”

“That … ah … *that* w-wasn’t so bad,” Norman affirmed. “It was ahfter—”

“Yeah, when I … when I avoided you,” Dipper resumed, shame in his voice. “I’m sorry for that, too. Real … c-cowardly of me.”

“D-didn’t know where Ah stood, y’know? What I’d d-done wrong—”

“*You* didn’t do *anything* wrong!” Dipper broke in emphatically.

“—‘cause I thought, the night before, we were … that everything was …”

“Yeah. Like w-whiplash, right? Sorta like … I led you on …”

“… Exactly …” Norman confirmed heavily.

“And I’m sorry for that. I’m really sorry for that, Norm. I didn’t … didn’t think about how *you* must’ve felt. Just myself … Didn’t think about how confused *you* must’ve been. Just myself … S-selfish,” Dipper summed it up in succinct shame. “Wish I hadn’t, ‘cause … Because …” He swallowed thickly. “B-because I … I lo … I think I … Because I *hate* that I hurt you,” he blurted out in a rush. “Didn’t want that … Would never …”

For a moment, neither said anything else. Just stood and sat there respectively, the one rubbing the other’s shoulders mechanically. Finally, the Medium cleared his throat. “You said … Y-you said there were … *two* things?”

“Yes!” Dipper answered, his throat so dry it was almost a cough.

“And … and the s-second?”

Dipper’s grip tensed, his fingers digging almost painfully—but not quite—into Norman’s shoulders; Norman liked such things harder, anyway. “The s-second is …” Dipper chocked out. “The second is … It’s harder to say,” he explained awkwardly. “You get that, right? This is hard for me, so … um … Yeah. Hard for me. Because … B-because it’s never been like *this* before. Not for me. And I’m … I’m just … really confused and kinda s-scared, y’know?”

“It’s never been like *what* before?” Norman prompted him again.

With a wide gesture around the room, the standing boy said, “Like *this*! All of it!”

“Yeah, that’s r-really specific, Dips. Really helpful.”

Frustrated, he sighed, “Y’know, with another *guy* before … That’s new for me, and I’m … I haven’t r-really come to terms with that. Haven’t wrapped my head around it.”

“Well … me neither,” Norman confessed.

“Really?” Dipper asked in surprise. “You didn’t like guys before me?”

“Oh, I did,” Norman corrected him. “Don’t get me wrong. Only interested in guys for as long as I can remember being interested in anyone. G-gay as they come, I guess?”

“Or *homosexual*, at least.”

“Those are the same thing,” Norman asserted slowly.

“Not according to the terrifying, knife-wielding maniac I spoke with earlier tonight.”

“What?”

“Yeah … It’s been a weird night so far. I’ll tell you about it later. The point is, though, that the whole ‘liking another guy’ thing is … Finding out I’m bi is … It’s gonna take some time to become comfortable with that, is all,” Dipper finally managed to express. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Norman assured him. “I’m s-*still* not fully comfortable with being g-gay—or ‘homosexual’ if you and the terrifying knife-wielding maniac insist—”

“Usually best not to argue with them,” Dipper agreed.

“—and I’ve pretty much been g-gay my whole life.”

A beat of silence passed before Dipper continued, “*This* wouldn’t be so hard, I guess, if that’s all it was … just the whole ‘liking another guys’ thing in general. B-but … When I say it’s never been like *this* for me before, what I mean is … what I also mean is …”

The Medium didn’t say a word. He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t even breathe.

“Why *this* s-scares me a little is … I’ve n-never felt *this*, like, intensely for someone. Never felt like … like … Norman, I think I might, like, be *in love* with you!” Dipper finally managed to blurt out. “Because you’re amazing and clever and so, so sweet and, okay, maybe part Fairy with a glamour around you, but I’ve decided that’s probably a passive ability and not one you’d ever misuse because you’re such a great guy and always trying to help people, especially the dead ones, and I trust you, so I don’t care if it’s true or not—and anyway it doesn’t matter because as I previously stated I think I might be in love with you!”

And with that, he fell deathly still and silent (except for continued panting to try and catch his breath from the previous blurting … which he had managed in under 10 seconds). It was as if he couldn’t believe he had divulged all that. Even his hands stopped moving.

Slowly, Norman asked, “You … do?”

“Y-yeah … I do … think that …”

“That’s … the second thing?” Norman asked, dumbstruck, unable to believe it.

“Yeah …”

“B-but you’re not *sure*?” Norman asked doubtfully, certain it was too good to be true.

“No …” Dipper answered honestly. “But I … I’ve got an idea. How I can find out. How *we* can find out?”

“Yeah?”

More deliberately than before, Dipper’s fingers began massaging into the muscles of Norman’s shoulders. “Y’know how I s-said I was *just experimenting*? Before? Well, that … that was *true*. And (even if I acted like a prick about everything) it wasn’t … *wrong* to do. You get what I’m saying? I’m sort of a … a *scientist*. And scientists experiment when they find something they don’t yet know, so that they can … know what they didn’t know before. Right? So I’m basically always experimenting all the time. Even coming back was an experiment to see if … see how I’d feel when I talked to you.”

Norman actually laughed at the dorky ramble; he couldn’t help himself—he never could around this beautiful, messed up dork. “So you’re saying … we gotta experiment some more?”

“I think it’s the only way to find out for sure. Plus, it’s what the terrifying, knife-wielding maniac advised, and terrifying, knight-wielding maniacs have never steered me wrong before … And I’ll be honest,” Dipper stated freely. “I have *no idea* what l-love is, what it feels like … Maybe this is it. Maybe it isn’t. I can’t p-promise what the outcome will be, but I *do* know that I want to try this experiment with you. You’re the … the *only one* I want to try it with …”

Reaching up to his own shoulders, Norman took hold of the other boy’s hands. He held them tight a moment, then declared, “I think I might be in love with you too, Dipper. So I want, more than anything, to … to try this experiment with you, too …”

“Ha! I guess that makes us science partners now, doesn’t it? Or is … is ‘boyfriends’ a better word?”

Norman blinked twice. Had Dipper just …? Had he really just …? “Y-you … didn’t just mean f-fooling around right now, do you?”

“No. I m-mean … I mean really trying at a real relationship. The full deal. If you’re … willing to work with a science partner as dumb as I am, sometimes. Though, full disclosure, if you accept, I do imagine there will be *lots* of fooling around now and in the future. Like … *lots* of it.”

“Ha! That is the *dorkiest* boyfriend proposal ever, and I love it. People will probably understand ‘boyfriends’ better, but screw ‘em; saying ‘science partners’ is exponentially cooler.”

“Ooo! ‘Exponentially’!” Dipper repeated with mock salaciousness. “I love it when you talk nerdy to me.”

“Ha! Your puns are terrible. Shut up and make science to me before I regret saying yes.”

Dipper chuckled in turn at Norman’s terribly dorky pun. But once the laugh left his lips, silence fell over him. He had no idea what else to say. Besides, words suddenly seemed … inappropriate. Or maybe “out of place” was a more accurate phrase; words felt like they did not belong here, in the space between him and Norman that practically was no space at all. It was time he did … *something*. But he had no idea what to do, either …

Looking around for inspiration, Dipper’s eyes were drawn to the motion of his own hands—extending and retracting against the muscle in Norman’s shoulders … and his neck … Pulling Norman’s shirt tight and loose and tight and loose, like the regular motion of the tides. Dipper noticed that, also like the tides over a tropical beach, it regularly covered and uncovered the nape of Norman’s neck … Norman’s long, white, and totally bare neck …

Dipper swallowed thickly; there were no words to be said here and now, yet he still felt like he was choking on something—something which was forcing its way up from somewhere deeper than his lungs. Forcing its way into his mouth. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew he had to let it out or else he might just burst from the pressure of it. Maybe, if he leaned in … just leaned in, and … Maybe that would let it out …

Norman’s breath caught in his chest when he felt the other boy’s lips against the back of his neck. At first, the contact was furtive (just a touch, as if testing that Norman’s skin wouldn’t burn him), but it swiftly became bolder. Then insistent, with the other boy’s lips pressing harder into Norman’s skin—kissing Norman’s neck in earnest. Deep within them, something stirred: like a thirst or a hunger, it was a physical need demanding *more*. Little wonder that Norman arched back into that emboldened kiss. Then he gasped when he felt, through the other boy’s parted lips, something warm and wet against his skin. It sent surges of electricity all throughout Norman’s body, and what had stirred within him was now jolted fully awake. Their first tongue contact—not furtive, but probing, avid, rapacious. Sliding over the back of Norman’s neck as if to learn its every feature; sweeping, like the strokes of a signature asserting “Dipper was here!”, across Norman’s bare nape; licking and slurping at Norman’s skin like it was a dessert. Then, suddenly, a sharper contact and Norman moaned aloud, “Oh, *yeeeaaah*!”. He couldn’t help it; what had stirred within him jumped onto its feet—jumped up to attention and ready for action—the instant he felt the other boy’s teeth nibble at him. With that unmistakable sign of approval (of invitation, even), the other boy was emboldened yet again; nibbles became nips became bites. Never enough to deal damage, but enough to feed the voracious thirst or hunger for Norman’s body—the physical need demanding *more*—within him. And Norman moaned every time he felt the other boy’s teeth, arching back towards the contact with equal voracity.

Dipper’s hands wandered forward from the seated boy’s shoulders to his throat and chest, then began to explore downward in circular sweeps. When Dipper’s fingers came to the nipples, he seemed unsure what to do at first; things were generally a whole lot flatter and firmer here than he was used to dealing with. Figuring it was worth a try, though, he decided to adopt the same basic strategy he had in the past: fondle everything. It seemed pleasurable enough for the seated boy, but didn’t elicit quite as emphatic a response as it had from past recipients; certainly not as much as drinking in that delicious, delicious neck now did. So Dipper let his hands wander farther down—sweeping back and forth across the seated boy’s belly and flanks and abdomen …

Then, before Dipper realized it (as about 87.2%—give or take .3%—of his attention was captivated by that beautiful, beautiful neck), his hands had wandered further than he’d intended: right over Norman’s crotch. Truthfully, it was only because Norman’s moan suddenly crescendoed in volume and pitch (“AaaaaAAAA! *Yes*!”) that Dipper noticed at all—that he looked up and saw just what he had done. A second later, he jolted back reflexively.

Surprised, Norman blinked, then turned around in his chair. “Why’d you—?”

“S-sorry!” Dipper blurted out. “I just … I didn’t think … It was *already*, y’know?”

Though so flushed with passion that most of his higher reasoning skills had switched off, Norman put two and two together. He slurred, “If you’re not ready, we don’t havta ‘speriment that far toni—”

“No, I’m good! I’m *good*! Just … touching a dick took me by surprise, is all.”

“Heh! W-what did you think would happen when you st-started ‘sperimenting with me?”

“Cut me some slack! There’s a lot more dicks involved than I’m used to!”

“Hahaha! There’ only *two* dicks involved!”

“Well, I’m used to only dealing with one! That’s a 100% increase in dicks, stadicksticlly! Maybe *more*, even … I’ve seen yours, and it’s …” Dipper gulped. “I just don’t think you’re appreciating the rammeifications of this situation here …”

“Dip,” Norman said gently. “There don’t hafta be any more … ‘rammeifications’ tonight than you want. It’s your experiment.”

“Yeah, but … It’s *yours*, too. I don’t—do *not*—want to just … just take from you. Not ever, Norm. I want you … I wanna make *you* happy. Wanna … make *you* feel good. Especially tonight. To show you how sorry I am for the way I treated you …”

The blue in the Medium’s eyes seemed to recede as his pupils dilated big and dark. It was a hungry look he gave the (normally but not presently) behatted boy over his chair. Ravenous. One that said “this is why I only want *you*”. Wetting his lips, the Medium smoldered, “Dipper, what would make *me* feel good is if you came back over here and … had your way with me. Really made me *yours*. Just … did *whatever* you want to do with my body *right now*.”

Incredulous at the freedom being granted him (“R-really?”) and overwhelmingly aroused at the power entrusted to him (“Really …”), the standing boy took a step forward. “W-what I want to do … is …”

“Yeah?”

“What I want to do *right now* is … k-kiss you. While I … touch you. Down there.”

“Do it,” Norman whispered. “Do what you want with me.”

Dipper took a deep breath, then he nodded. “Okay … T-turn the chair around, and … and sit normal in it … normally, I mean.” Then, once the taller boy had done as he was told (and sat with his legs spread invitingly wide apart), Dipper took another step forward—stepped right up to the chair and right between those widespread legs. He stood over the taller boy now, looking down at him (for once in his life) and his impossibly vertical hair and his impossibly perfect face. It was a new sensation for Dipper … and it felt *good*. It felt *right*. So it felt natural when, reaching down, he took the taller boy’s face in his hands and turned it up towards him.

For a moment, Dipper just stood like that … Looking down at Norman—tilting Norman’s face upwards, to look back at him. Those big blue eyes were adoring, those small pink lips were parted excitedly … both waiting expectantly, hopefully, impatiently … All Norman Babcock’s being was. Because this was Norman Babcock, Dipper realized in a flash, and not just a neck. And, therefore, this was *it*; if Dipper did what he wanted—what he *and* Norman wanted—there would be no turning back. *Everything* would really change (he would really change, and Norman, and the relationship between them would all really change), and he’d be leaving behind the “real Dipper” about whom he had been so preoccupied less than six hours ago. This was *it*. And yet … standing like that … he felt that it truly was *his choice* to make. *He* had the power to decide. No one and nothing else could force him. It was whatever *he* wanted …

Dipper made his choice: he leaned down and kissed Norman. And, when it seemed a spark passed into him from the contact and set his whole body aflame, he kissed Norman harder. He kissed him deeper, too, his tongue passing Norman’s lips and teeth—probing, avid, rapacious as it had been upon the nape of Norman’s neck. One hand had gone back there by now, holding his face against Dipper’s, while the other reached down and (as if with steeled determination) laid itself upon Norman’s crotch.

For his part, the Medium offered no resistance. He yielded himself meekly to the kiss, opening his lips to let other boy’s tongue into his mouth. There was no struggle for dominance, as sometimes happens when two men kiss; no clash of wills to see who would lead this dance. The Medium followed entirely. And when the other boy groped down for his groin, the Medium ground forward against the hand. For that, he was rewarded with a firm squeeze amidst the rubs. Pure pleasure found in his submission.

Sometimes, Dipper pulled away from the Medium’s lips to kiss and lick and nip at his perfect, perfect neck instead. Sometimes, he ran his hand through the Medium’s thick, dark hair, then grasped it and pulled his head back or around by it—giving himself easier access to more of that perfect, perfect neck. Sometimes, Dipper would use that same hold on the Medium’s hair to press his face against Dipper’s own neck, and hold it there while the Medium kissed and licked and nipped at a neck in turn.

The first time it happened, Norman laughed with delight.

“What?” the other boy rasped through his sensual haze.

“Your stubble! I *love* your stubble! It makes it so clear that I’m kissing a man.”

The other boy’s response was to press Norman’s face even harder into that stubbly area. Norman, yet again, offered no resistance; he had meant it when he told the other boy he wanted him to do whatever he wanted with his body.

And Dipper intended to. For then his mouth was beside Norman’s ear, and he murmured, “T-take it out. Right now. I wanna … wanna touch it for real.”

It was a struggle to free it, with both of them crowding together on that chair, but Norman eventually managed to extract his own long member. Dipper seized upon it almost immediately. The warmth of it surprised him. So did the silkiness of its skin over the hardened muscle. But most of all, it surprised him how perfectly it seemed to fit in the palm of his hand—as if his hand had been made to hold Norman’s dick. As if this had always been meant to be.

“Now … take *mine* out,” Dipper murmured into Norman’s ear. “Take it out and … and p-play with it. Like you played with yourself. The other night.”

This maneuver was easier for Norman to perform, as Dipper was more-or-less standing before him; with an unfastening and a quick, downward tug, Norman had Dipper’s cock bouncing free. And so close … so very close … But he had been given specific instructions, so he contented himself with wrapping his hand around its girth and manually pleasuring it.

“Y-yeah! Yeah!” Dipper gasped, his grips on Norman’s shaft and hair clenching tight. “Like that … Oh … Use b-both hands …”

The other hand joined the first, now handling Dipper’s balls, now palming Dipper’s tip, now combining with the first to perform complicated motions over Dipper’s shaft. Even when Dipper jerked him back upwards by the hair to relentlessly bury him with kisses, he managed to maintain the patterned hand movements upon Dipper’s cock.

It soon got to be too much too fast, and the standing boy had to push himself away from the chair, or risk losing control of himself right then and there. Because he didn’t want to lose it. Not yet. There was so much he still wanted to do with the other boy, different ways to have him. Different experiments that couldn’t wait a day longer. So, with his cock jutting out of his pants and waggling through the air with each heaving breath, he then gestured for the other to stand.

The Medium, with his more-than-medium dick mirroring the movements of the other, complied. With the back of his hand, he wiped some saliva from his mouth (impossible to know if it was his own or not), then said, “T-tell me what you want next. Tell me what to do for you.”

Trying to decide exactly what he wanted next, Dipper looked the taller boy up and down. He liked everything he saw … except that he was now back to looking up at the taller boy. Yeah, that had to be fixed … But how? He glanced around the room, and his eyes feel on his own bed. A bed which residents of Dorm H had claimed was just the perfect height for … a certain job … Oh gods, *that* would certainly fix their relative heights … But first …

“Right now, what I want is for you to take off your clothes. Take off *all* your clothes,” Dipper ordered. “Get naked.”

Norman, despite himself, grinned. He was halfway out of his jacket in less than a second.

“No, wait!” Dipper stopped him. “Do it *slowly*. Y-y’know … *strip* for me.”

“Oh! Ooooh …” Then, deliberately drawing out the process as best he could figure, Norman recommenced getting naked for Dipper. He slipped off his jacket, then let it drop carelessly to the floor. Turning away, so that his back was to Dipper, Norman then began removing his shirt—pulling the hem of it up nearly to nipple height while wagging his hips back and forth provocatively; it gave a nice view of his back, and the definition to it. He half-swayed back around to Dipper as he freed one arm from its sleeve, showing off his flank and bare arm (and even flashing a nipple), but not quite his dick. Really putting the tease in “striptease” … “Like this?” he asked deferentially.

Flushed with delight, the other boy nodded approvingly. “Y-yeah! *Perfect* …”

So Norman half-swayed around the other way as he freed the other arm, symmetrically repeating the tease (he knew how much Dipper loved symmetry, after all). Then, with his shirt around his neck like a scarf, and his torso and back already as naked as his dick, Norman decided to turn halfway round. In perpendicular profile, to accentuate its full length, he took his manhood in hand and pumped it once, twice, thrice for Dipper. He swept off his shirt-scarf expansively after that, even tossing it away, and pumped himself once, twice, thrice again. A shoe came off, and he repeated the pumping. A sock, then another repetition. Suddenly, he turned a 180 to face the other direction (for symmetry!). Off came the other shoe, and he pumped himself again. Then the other sock, with another repetition—once, twice, thrice. Then, for the first time since starting his little striptease, he looked up and around at Dipper. Looked Dipper square in the eyes. He flicked his jeans down to his ankles and pumped himself again, his eyes saying “it’s *you* I think about when I do this”.

Never looking away, flushing brighter still, the other boy said the only thing that he could think of. “C-cute boxers …”

The Medium looked down at them. Black, with a hot pink waistband, hems, and seams. From American Eagle. By a stroke of genius, he shrugged carelessly, slipped them off his lean frame, and tossed them towards the other boy. “If you l-like ‘em, you can have ‘em.”

By sheer reflex, Dipper even caught them. Then he guffawed—at himself and at Norman and at how dorky both of them were together. “Th-that … was pretty *hot*.”

“Yeah?” Norman asked, his hope as naked as his arousal.

“Yeah. Experiment’s going pretty good so far, I’d say.”

“What d’we need to test next? Tell me what to do for you. P-please.”

Dipper glanced at the bed and the solution to the height problem. Then he gazed at Norman hungrily. “What I want right now is for you to get on your knees.”

Norman grinned more widely than before. He knelt down without hesitation.

Never taking his eyes off Norman, Dipper moved to his bed and sat on the edge. His legs just barely reached the ground, it was so high. His thick, turgid cock pointed forward as proud and hard as the prow of a ship. He gestured to it (as if Norman’s attention needed any direction). “R-right now … I really wanna have my way with *your mouth*—wanna make that sassy mouth of yours *mine*. S-so … get over here and suck it. Suck my cock. Now.”

Transfixed, as if hypnotized by it, the Medium nodded. Without a word, he crawled the few steps that separated their bodies—the distance that practically was no distance at all between them—on his knees. Perhaps he could not believe that this was really finally happening. Perhaps neither of them could. But either way, the Medium took the other boy’s cock in his hand, opened his mouth wide, and bowed his head over it.

“Whoa …” Dipper exclaimed quietly. “That’s … *wow*!” Had it always felt this good, or had it simply been so long that he’d forgotten? Was it simply that he had never felt as strongly about anyone else—including his two or three (depending how you counted) ex-girlfriends—as he felt about Norman, or … was Norman simply that *good*? Because Dipper could feel every pout and pucker of Norman’s lips as he drew up and down the shaft, or smackered it indulgently; Dipper could feel every undulation and loll of Norman’s tongue around its girth, every flutter and roll over its length, every lick, slurp, and smack (as if savoring a meat popsicle). And it was certainly *good*. Plus … he did feel more strongly about Norman than he had any of his exes. Knowing it was *Norman* down on his knees—willingly, even enthusiastically—before him … Knowing it was *Norman* begging at every turn for Dipper to tell him what to do, to use him … Knowing it was *Norman* who had submissively stripped when bid—who shamelessly obeyed each command to stand or sit or kneel, to titillate or masturbate or fellate while completely naked because it was *Dipper* (though still dressed) who commanded it … Knowing all that made this moment more exciting and more gratifying than any he could remember.

So, luxuriating in the moment, Dipper ran a hand through that impossible, gorgeous hair bobbing up and down over his crotch. So thick and dark … Soft, too. Amazing that *anything* which bristled so stubbornly upward could be so soft … Then, suddenly, another wave of pleasure rippled through him as Norman, his mouth still full of cock, moaned dreamily around it. Dipper chuckled, “Heh … You like that, Norm? You like h-having my hand … on the back of your head while you … while you s-suck me off? Showing you what to do? Showing you you’re doing a good job? You like that? Huh?” And when Norman moaned dreamily again, he asked, “What if I grip tighter … like this? Huh? You like that, too? Yeah, you like it, you kinky little … little *cocksucker*,” Dipper added in a rush, as if unable to believe his own daring obscenity. That triggered another dreamy moan from Norman; apparently, he liked the tighter grip as much as he liked being called that name. Emboldened, Dipper then asked, “What if I start pushing you lower down … like this? Huh? You like that even more? You like feeling it against the back of your throat? You like—oh! Ooooh ….” Dipper moaned dreamily in his turn, for not only was Norman offering no resistance, but he was working the cock with his throat as much as his lips and tongue. Swallowing around it “Gods above, Norm, y-you’re … freakin’ *amazing* at this!”

Practically glowing from the other boy’s praise and dominating presence, the Medium abandoned himself to the deep-throating. Every downward push filled his whole mouth—filled it with a pillar of raw masculinity … of meat and muscle, of manhood incarnate … The taste … was just *indescribable*. So delicious he couldn’t get enough. And every downward push also brought his nose so close to the other boy’s glossy pubic hair that the curls tickled the tip of it. His nostrils were filled with the smell of it—filled with a musk that was also pure masculinity … A *man’s* musk … So intoxicating, he couldn’t get enough of it. Manhood incarnate was filling his mouth and his nostrils … And his eyes when he opened them, for the other boy’s presence dominated his view … And his ears, too, for the other boy’s gasps and moans and commands and (above all) praise were all he was listening to. Filling all his senses, dominating his attention, and locking his sex drive on overdrive—keeping him so hard and tight, his dick ached like magic at every moment. If the Medium had possessed the ability to think of anything else, he probably would have hoped this moment would never end.

But then, suddenly, the other boy was actually pulling him off. The Medium peered up, not comprehending, and saw the face of one nearly out of control himself: cheeks flushed red, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering and dark like chasms, mouth ajar and agape and approaching—the face of a man in full heat and acting purely on sexual instinct, the face of a man who would have his way with the Medium as wildly as an animal, the face of the sexiest man alive for him. Oh, yes! YES! Then that mouth was over the Medium’s until they were both starving for air.

For a moment after that, Dipper held Norman’s face against his—forehead to forehead—just breathing. Then he asked, “That … Is that … what cock tastes like? The taste on your lips?”

Norman smiled as he panted. “T-tastes good, huh?”

“Ha! That a hint? R’you tryin’ to be subtle? ‘Cause I’ll admit … I like the taste of it … on *your* lips.”

“Nah … Not hintin’ at anythin’. Not *tonight*, a’least … Jus’ tryin’ to … make sure you think … the ‘speriment’s a success so far …”

Dipper kissed him again, then said, “A wise man once said … ‘Science rules!’ … Now, sit back on your butt …”

Norman did so, planting his bare ass on the thin carpet. “Like this?”

“Yeah … And k-keep your arms at your side. I wan’em outta the way …”

Feeling his heartrate quicken, Norman pressed his palms into the rough, scratchy material as if to grip it tight. To hold on, so he couldn’t accidentally disobey. “W-what d’you … wanna do with my body next?” he panted excitedly.

Dipper stepped right in front of him, bringing his cock back level with Norman’s face. “W-what I wanna do right now is … What I’m *g-gonna* do right now is … is **** your cocksucking face ‘til I c-cum all over it … Gonna *really* make it mine …”

Norman thought he just might die of happiness. In that moment, all he could ever want in the world was happening. He couldn’t help but beam when he felt Dipper’s hands on either side of his head. Gripping him tight around his ears.

“Y-you sure you’re okay with this, Norm?”

“Do it! ****in’ do it! ****in’ **** me right up in the mouth!”

“Th-then … open your m-mouth, and stay still, you beautiful little cocksucker.”

Dipper’s cock was in the Medium’s mouth then, thrusting as relentlessly as a teenage jackhammer on viagra. It was like the Medium’s uvula was a punching bag, and his cock was training for heavyweight champion of the world. There was nothing gentle about this stage of their experimental intercourse, and nothing poetic, either: just in and out, in and out, in and out. Just Dipper’s pelvis driving forward then pulling back, while the Medium did his best to relax his throat, shut off his gag reflex, and take quick, shallow breaths in between each movement. Rough was what they both wanted from each other. Rough was what they both gave each other. Completely consensual and completely equal use of each other’s bodies. Then, like lightning during a storm—where every flash is foreseeable, yet every flash still takes you by surprise—Dipper was there. He orgasmed in a sudden rush as he pulled back from the Medium’s throat, flooding his tongue. “Ah! Ah! Take it all! Take it all!” But, also like lightning, there was more than one flash; he was able to extract himself from the Medium’s greedy maw in time to spurt the rest over his lips and chin and cheek.

When Norman turned his big blue eyes up at him and gave him a breathless, gooey smile, it was the most satisfying sight in the world for Dipper … Strange, since he would have found it gross just that morning … But that seemed like a lifetime ago, and all he cared about now was how perfect the moment was and how soft Norman’s hair was when he ran his hands through it. So soft … So beautiful … Just like the rest of him …

“I don’t care anymore …” he declared in their happy silence. “I really don’t …”

Norman cocked his head to one side—such a damned adorable gesture—and asked, “About what?”

“If you’re a Fairy or not.”

“Um … That’s kinda bizarrely offensive *and* archaic. Not the 1950s anymore.”

“No, I don’t mean the slur against gays. I mean the actual, magical species.”

Norman cocked his head the other way—he just couldn’t be more adorable if he tried. “You … thought I was a F-Fairy? Like, with wings?”

“They don’t actually have wings (or most don’t), but yeah. And, like, that my attraction to you was some sorta glamour you were casting on me. To try and make sense of it, y’know?” Dipper explained sheepishly. “How else could I, perfectly straight guy, be so infatuated with you? But, no, turns out that you’re just that sexy, and I’m bi-sexual. That’s what the terrifying, knife-wielding maniac helped me realize … For which I should probably buy her, like, a fruit basket or something. But would that be too on-the-nose?”

“Uh, no, it’d probably be a suitable gift,” Norman opined uncertainly. “But, also, you were hardly perfectly straight before.”

“What? Yes, I was.”

“Um … I distinctly recall you saying that Miles Teller was the sexiest guy on the cast of the 2011 reproduction of ‘Footloose’—”

“He is. Hands down. That’s just an objective fact,” Dipper interrupted dismissively.

“—that Neville grew up to be the cutest of all the Hogwarts students—”

“He did. Anyone can see that. Also an objective fact.”

“—and that Tom Hiddleston is the most attractive cast member in all the Avengers series, and probably the most attractive movie villain of all time.”

“Yet another objective fact. I don’t get what you think these points prove.”

Norman rolled his eyes at that.

“The point is,” Dipper reiterated, “that I wouldn’t care if you were a Fairy or not. That was the best … *ahem* b-blowjob of my life.”

“Heh. Thanks. For the record, though, I’m *not*.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Dipper offered Norman a hand and gallantly pulled him onto his feet. In so doing, he pulled Norman’s dick into clear view—Norman’s still rock hard dick. “Whoa, wait! You didn’t get off yet? You were so into it, I thought you did!”

Perhaps for the first time all night, the Medium actually looked embarrassed. “W-well … I *did* get off on it. It was h-hot as hell, and I … I hope we’ll d-do it again soon and often—”

“But you didn’t cum like I did.”

“N-no, but don’t worry,” Norman hurriedly assured him. “You’re tired. I can finish m—”

Dipper shook his head. “Nothing doing. I told you I didn’t want to just take from you—that I wanted to make you happy and feel good—and I *meant* it.”

“But you *have* made me happy,” Norman protested. “That was freakin’ amazing! Best sex of my life!”

“And it’s not over yet,” Dipper stated unequivocally. “Lie down and … and *I* … will now blow *you*.”

Norman’s dick actually twitched upward at that statement (despite how nervous it was). Perhaps he considered insisting another time that it really wasn’t’ necessary, but … the gleam in those milk chocolate eyes was rekindling; it pierced him right down into his guy. So he nodded. “M-make me *yours*. Tell me what to do. P-please.”

Fighting to keep the nervousness out of his voice, Dipper replied, “L-lie down … No, not in *your* bed. Lie down in *my* bed.”

“Y-yes, sir!” Stretching out across the other boy’s bed, the Medium felt his dick flop onto his belly. It was so hard and tight, like it would pop if he didn’t get some relief soon … Heck, he would pop even if he *did* get some relief. And lying there, naked on top of blankets and sheets that smelled of the other boy’s body, didn’t help the pressure throbbing through it. He just couldn’t believe he was going to get that needed relief *this* way.

Somewhat uncertainly, Dipper (still fully clothed, save for his exposed cock) climbed into bed. Climbed over the Medium, who looked back up at him with blue eyes wide and cum still wet on his face. Though neither saw it, both nervously clenched the blankets underhand. Then Dipper, figuring it had worked before to get things rolling (and was still a really appealing idea), leaned in and kissed the Medium on his delicious, beautiful, perfect neck once again. The response was just as impassioned as before, so he kept doing it—doing it, and finding he loved it just as much as before himself, even his pace was more languid now. He kissed and he licked and he nipped all over that bare throat.

Before he moved downward, though, he whispered in the Medium’s ear, “Y’know, I like having you in my bed. I *really* like it. And I *really* like having you *naked* in my bed.”

“M-me, too …”

As Dipper’s mouth moved downward over Norman’s body, it left a trail that sparkled and shone in the dim lamplight. The mark of lips against naked skin, of a tongue, and of teeth. Ephemeral and soon erased from the flesh of the physical world, but not from the realm of Norman’s mind; the walk to paradise leaves an imprint there. And then, Dipper’s mouth found its way to Norman’s dick. With the determined gusto of a man who will finish this job (and maybe even like it—who knows?), he inhaled it and went to wrok.

Dick was … not quite what Dipper was expecting. Perhaps it was because he had already known release? Perhaps because he didn’t have the same submissive streak that Norman did? Perhaps because he was not yet entirely over his previous prejudices, and would need more time to process the life decisions with which he was choosing to experiment? Perhaps because it was freakin’ hard to suck someone’s dick without gagging himself—especially one as big and aesthetically perfect as Norman’s? Perhaps because he expected something at all (when he was new to it, and ought to have just lived in the moment)? Either way, this second taste of dick was not as exhilarating as his first one, when he had tasted it on Norman’s lips. But Norman seemed to be enjoying it—he groaned more emphatically than ever before, squirmed and bucked, even reached down to run his hands through Dipper’s wavy locks—and *that* was what mattered. Acting on instinct, he once caught Norman’s hands in his own, then pinned them at the wrist against the bed while he continued to suck away; to hear Norman’s reaction (“Ah! Yes! Oh, yes! ****ing take me! Have your way with me!”), he more than enjoyed that. In fact, a few slurps later, Norman was erupting into Dipper’s stubbly facial hair … which was sorta hot …

“Not bad for my first time,” he decided as he got up to wash his face.

“Man, Dip …” Norman sighed contentedly, still lying spent in the other boy’s bed. “When you held me down like that … *Whoa* …”

Dipper grinned. “You liked that, huh?”

“I *loved* it. Did … did you like it?”

The answer was not immediately forthcoming—not until Dipper had washed his face and was lying down beside Norman. Then, truthfully, he answered, “It was a new experience.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“I didn’t *dislike* it … It’ll just take some getting used to,” Dipper replied as he wrapped his arms around Norman’s naked body and pulled him close. “Like an acquired taste, right? But I can tell you that I’m really liking this—this thing we’ve got going on right now.”

Nestling back against Dipper’s chest (even though his own superior height and Dipper’s sweaty clothes made it a little awkward), Norman purred, “Yeah … This is pretty sweet … But I just w-want you to know that you don’t have to do things you don’t like for me. I’m really okay with—ah!”

With a kiss to the back of his neck, Dipper managed to silence him. Then, just for good measure, he added “What I want to do right now is just cuddle you. No serious talk. We leave it for later. Just cuddling together in the afterglow.”

“Alright … So, a *Fairy*?”

“Well, it was either that, or a Siren—”

“But I’m not Greek.”

“—or a Kitsune.”

“And I’m definitely not Japanese. My family’s Irish.”

“Yeah, that’s what Mabel sad,” Dipper conceded. “Which is why a Fairy seemed the most logical option. They’re Irish, too. Or can be … I guess Celtic is more accurate than Irish.”

“Ha! So I was casting a spell on you?” Norman asked, his tone amused.

Dipper gave the nape of his neck another kiss. “You *do* cast a spell on me.”

“D’aww! I’m gonna blush here.”

“And that spell is incredibly confusing. Like … why for you, and never any other guys?”

Norman made a coughing noise as he said, “Miles Teller. Neville. Tom Hiddleston.”

“Shut up, you dork, I’m *trying* to be romantic here.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t lie to me. I’m sick of all your lies.”

“Okay, but I’m *trying* to be sorry.”

“Still you speak only lies. Why must you continue to lie to me?”

“Um, I believe you were saying *something* about you being under my spell?”

“Yeah, well, you broke it. And now I’m free to—”

“Be a snarky ass?” Norman interjected archly.

“I was gonna say ‘see through your filthy, filthy *lies*’ … but that works, too. Guess that’s what you get for letting me kiss you.”

“So … what? My own t-true love’s kiss broke the spell on you? The spell *I* cast?”

Though Norman couldn’t see it, he could hear the other boy grinning. “Ironic, huh? Now, could be I’m *even more* under your spell … just able to be a ‘snarky ass’ at the same time.” And for that that dorky pronouncement, Norman pulled the other boy’s hand up away from his chest so he could kiss it tenderly.

Dipper drew his breath in. “Your face is … still c-covered in my … my cum, isn’t it?”

“Yeah …” Norman said huskily. What had begun to slumber within him began to stir all over again. “Still all over my face. And I … I *like* it. M-makes me feel like you’re … I dunno. Like you’re all around me?”

Behind him, Dipper closed his mouth. He had been on the verge of complaining about the implication of the Medium’s face still being covered in cum as they spooned together in his bed (to wit: that Dipper pillow was now smeared with his own ejaculate), but … he decided he could live with that. So long as the Medium kept talking like that … and stayed on that side of the bed.

Norman, meanwhile, kept searching for the right words to express just how he felt in that warm afterglow—which was the best thing he could have done. “It’s like a c-constant reminder that you just … just made me yours. That right now—at least, r-right this moment—I’m *yours*. So maybe … maybe it won’t be for *just* this moment? If now, why not l-later, too? Why not … why not *always*? S-silly, I know. Probably taking that way too f-fast, but it’s how I f—Ah!”

The other boy, firmly but gently, nipped the back of Norman’s neck again. And again. Then he drew his tongue from the nape to just below Norman’s ear (making him quiver the whole way), to whisper therein, “Why not right now again?”

“I … I’m d-down with that!”

“Good …” Dipper declared. “So h-how about we run the same experiment, but … but with a *different* variable?”

“W-which variable?”

For an answer, Dipper slowly let his hand slip from the Medium’s chest, down and across his flank … past his hip … onto his buttock. Which it grasped tightly, then smacked once.

“O-oh! *That* variable …” Taking a deep breath, the Medium then affirmed, “Y-yeah, I’m d-down with that experiment. For science, of course.”

“For science. Chemistry, specifically,” Dipper quipped.

Norman thought a second, then added, “And astrophysics. ‘Cause th-this is gonna send me outta this world.”

“That was the worst. And I love it.” Dipper rose out of bed, moving for his desk, but then paused and spun back around with a devious grin on his face. “And astronomy, too … Because dat asssss drawin’ me.”

“Take me. Take me *now*, you beautiful bastard.”

“No, not yet,” Dipper declared. “First, what I want you to do is turn sideways.”

“Sideways?”

“Like you were the other night,” Dipper explained, his voice filling with a deep heat and his eyes filling with dark intensity. The smolder was rekindled and the flames being stoked (soon to be stroked). “When I made you … When *you* sh-showed me your … *hole*. Get in that same position. With your legs s-spread. Now.”

Pulse quickening with every sexual order, Norman did as he was directed; he slid himself perpendicular to the bed and, parting his legs, braced his heels against the frame. It put his tight, pink, perfect hole nicely on display.

Dipper nodded his approval. Then, from the back of one drawer in his desk, he extracted two objects: a bottle of lubricant and a condom. The former he handed over to the Medium. “Take some. Th-then get your … your *hole* ready for me. Really w-work it inside yourself and all around the opening. ‘Cause I wanna watch you get *hard* while anticipating what’s next … while preparing yourself for it—for *me*.”

“Y-yes, sir!” Norman assented breathlessly, his dick already inflating with red, hot blood. A liberal amount was squeezed from the bottle to his right hand before he reached low—past his own dick—to apply it to the exterior of his anus. It felt cold, but only for a moment; after that, it only felt wet. He rubbed it in narrow circles, and then (with a deep breath) inserted a finger.

“Good …” the other boy declared, his own eyes locked on the Medium’s anus. Transfixed, as if hypnotized by it. His own cock was just as transfixed, already pointing directly at it. “Really p-push it in deep and work it around.”

Norman did as he was directed, triggering a low moan from within himself.

Dipper nodded his approval again. “Good …” Then, still watching closely, he removed his shirt. His burly torso was laid as bare as his burly member.

“Y-you’re … actu’lly taking off your clothes?” Norman inquired hopefully, drinking in the new sight of the other boy’s chest hair.

“Seems an appropriate moment for it.”

“Hell yeah!”

“Use another finger. A second one. *With* the first.”

“Y-yes, sir!” Norman repeated with breathless enthusiasm. And then with a louder moan than before as his anus stretched that much further.

“D-don’t forget to really work it around,” Dipper said throatily. “Twist it back and forth. Your f-fingers, I mean … Yeah, *just* like that. Good … Now push in and out … In and out …” His shoes were kicked off next, to be immediately forgotten—what shoes? had he even been wearing shoes? who cares about shoes? Then off came his socks, stumbling around a little for each one because his attention was focused somewhere much more interesting. “Now I want you to get a *third* finger in there, Norm … You can do it. You *have to* if you want any hope of taking my cock.”

“Heh! Yeah!” the Medium laughed and gasped in equal measure. “Tha’s a lot bigger … than three finger …”

“You know it,” the other boy said quietly. “A lot *bigger* … A lot *thicker* … And a lot *longer* …”

“O-oh! I wan’ it inside me!”

“You’re gonna get it. You’re gonna get *all* of it. Every inch.”

“Y-yes! Yes, please!”

“And you’re gonna *love* it. You’re gonna love it as much as you loved sucking it—and *that* is saying something, ‘cause you obviously *loved the hell* outta sucking it.”

“I did! I did! I ****in’ loved every second of it!”

With a deft flick of both wrists, Dipper divested himself of jeans and boxers. With both around his ankles (and only long enough for him to step out of them), he now stood completely exposed and completely erect—too fixated on Norman to be proud, but certainly unashamed.

And the sight of it practically made Norman swoon. “Oh, gods …”

“Get some more lube, then get the fourth in there,” Dipper commanded evenly.

Norman extracted his hand long enough to squeeze a little more out. “Yes, s—ah! Ah!”

And while the Medium vociferously lubricated and stretched himself to the maximum, the other boy tore open the condom wrapper. Slowly, he then rolled it over his throbbing cock. “Ex-experimenting—all science, really—requires proper safety equipment. M-maybe I should … have a white coat and goggles, eh? What d’ya think?”

“**** proper safety!” the Medium whimpered. “Just p-please **** me now!”

The other boy shook his head in mock disappointment. “‘**** proper safety’? I’ll pretend you didn’t say such sacrilege against science.” He moved closer then. Moved right between the Medium’s legs, putting his protected cock mere inches from the Medium’s eager, twitching hole. “Especially since science is the whole r-reason we’re conducting this experiment. Test the hypothesis that you and I could really work as … ‘science partners’. Maybe I should make you apologize to science b-before continuing?”

Desperate now, Norman hissed out, “S-sorry, science! ‘M sorry! That good enough yet?”

“F-for now,” Dipper decided. Then, with the deliberation of his own nervousness, he took Norman’s thighs in hand—palpitating the interior muscles under his palms and fingers—and spread them further apart. He encountered no resistance, and that thought was just as intoxicating as the act itself. For a moment, he gazed down at Norman (his eyes gleaming, his feverishly flushed skin, his full pulsing erection, and his slick anus). Savored this moment shared together. His cock hovered just outside the anus, his tip sometimes so close it teased. Dipper gulped. “Norman … are you … r-ready?”

“B-been ready for this … s-since the day we met …”

“Then … What I want is … What I w-want right now is …”

“Say it.”

“What I w-want right now is for you to … to *beg* me for it again.”

More meekly than he had ever articulated any sentence, Norman whispered, “Dipper, please … *please* make me yours. I wanna be yours so bad. More than anything … **** me ‘til I’m cross-eyed. **** me ‘til I forget my own name … Please?”

With that, Dipper leaned in … and he didn’t stop until his shaft was completely buried inside Norman’s ass. The sensation—for both of them—was more than words could describe. More than thoughts could process. So intense, the rest of the world faded into a pure whiteness. Tunnel vision almost to the loss of consciousness—but not blacking out … *whiting* out.

“Y-you’re so … It feels so …”

“Oh gods! Oh gods! Oh gods!”

Dipper pulled back, then forced his cock forward to the hilt. Faster than before.

“Tighter than … Better than …”

“Again! Again! Please! Again!”

Dipper pulled back, then impelled his cock forward to the hilt. Harder than before.

“I’m gonna … fill you up … Gonna do this ‘til I … can’t do it anymore …”

“Don’t! Stop! Don’t! Stop!”

Dipper pulled back, then drove his cock forward. Then again. And again. And again. Mind numbed, he fell into a mind-numbing rhythm in time with the drumbeat of his heartrate. Pull and pulse and pull and pulse … Primitive. Prehistoric. Instinctual. Animal. Vital. He lost himself in it—they both lost themselves in it—speaking ancient tongues too profound for words; all it needed to express was hunger … and its satisfaction; need and its gratification; longing and its fulfillment … Did it express love, or just lust? Was it too profound to make that distinction? Too ancient to conceive of such a difference between the two? Too truthful to care if there was? Impossible to say, but … unencumbered by modern self-deception, the words and the act took them as close to the truth of this matter as humankind (fallen as it is) can come.

“S-so close … You’re gonna make me—”

“Not yet, Norman … Not yet … S-say my name … *First*, say my name! I want you to say my ****ing name, Norman! Cum with my name on your ****ing lips!”

“D-Dipper!”

“Louder!”

“Dipper! Ah!”

“SHOUT IT!”

“DIPPER PINES! *DIP*—AH!”

“NO-O-O-ORMAN! *Norman* … Oh, man …”

“Aaaah … Dipper Pines … Dipper … Dip …”

In the gasping and the panting for air that followed, their eyes met. Then Dipper was dropping down onto Norman and Norman was springing up to Dipper and their lips were locked and their tongues were intertwined and their arms were around each other and their hands were in each other’s hair so fiercely it hurt. But they didn’t care. When the collapse finally came, and they both lay together—naked, sweaty, totally spent (and perpendicular) across Dipper’s bed—neither had the energy to disentangle their limbs; they simply lay as they had collapsed.

For a long time, it was a space and a place where words seemed inappropriate again. Maybe “out of place” was a more accurate phrase. The only one that felt it belonged—that Dipper felt it was right to say—was, “Norman … Norman … *My* Norman …”

“Your Norman …” the Medium agreed. “*Yours*. Now and forever.”

“… I think I love you.”

“I think I love you, too, Dipper.”

“… Do you want … your turn at … what we just did?”

“Tonight? Ha!” Norman actually guffawed. Or nearly so. He *was* totally spent. “I’ll decline to return that favor tonight … Too tired …”

“Okay. I just wanna make sure you—”

Norman hushed him with a kiss. “Dipper, you can’t even begin to understand how happy you made me—how good you made me feel … That was the f-first time I made … science—*real* science—with someone …”

“C-call it … l-love. We just made *love*.”

Norman smiled. “Alright. The first time I made *real* love, and not just had sex … Besides it being the best sex, by far, hands down, no competition.”

“Actually … same here,” Dipper stated, smiling joyfully back at his science partner … at his boyfriend.

“I am so h-happy, I can’t even put it into words. So, no, not tonight. We can always run *that* experiment later. When you’re ready. No rush. W-we got all the time in the world.”

Dipper nodded, then shifted upright. “Norman, what I want right now is …”

“Tell me. Tell me what to do.”

“What I want right now is to go to sleep with you. S-stay in my bed.”

Stars in his heavy-lidded eyes, Norman intoned, “As you wish.”

“Make yourself comfortable. I’m gonna turn off the light …” And then, after that, Dipper slipped into bed beside Norman, where he took him in his arms. Sleep came quickly for them both, and neither woke until late the next morning.

It was the best night’s sleep either of them had ever had …

****

It’s the little things which make a relationship thrive—not just last or work, but *thrive*.

This is not something which everyone understands. Certainly not most knuckleheaded, knuckledragging frat boys. Sure, they might *comprehend it* on an abstract, intellectual level (like how everyone knows that a healthy diet is important, or that it’s wrong to treat someone differently based on their appearance, or that you’re only a good person if you do good things), but that doesn’t mean they actually *understand* it. That they get how it translates into daily life; that they get how the concept applies to them—or even that the concept does apply to them, too. It takes effort and sacrifice to make a relationship thrive. Not once a week through one big act, but several times a day in little gestures. In this respect, both Dipper Pines and Norman Babcock had some distinct advantages … but still much to learn.

Dipper Pines had to learn how to ignore the ribbing and the jibes he would take from the other residents of Dorm H for being in an open relationship with another guy, and especially with a macabre loner who some still believed was maybe a vampire, a warlock/wiccan, or a creepy poet and murderer. Because literally *everyone* in Dorm H did know the following day (as happens in a building with paper-thin walls and gossipy tenants … especially if both people climax while shouting their partner’s name). It wasn’t easy for him to stop caring about whether or not strangers considered him manly or not, but eventually he did learn that their opinions didn’t matter.

Norman would consider it kinda sweet that, in the end, the hardest part for Dipper wasn’t the ribbing and the jibes he himself took … but which were directed at Norman. Dipper nearly got in three fistfights their first semester together, all of them to defend Norman’s honor.

Norman Babcock had to learn to be patient and encouraging with Dipper’s insecurities about his own gender and sexuality. One talking to from Miss Tabatha certainly wasn’t enough to unlearn all of his previous prejudices; it was a process that would take months and months of pep talks, detail-oriented discussions, and hand-holding while taking baby steps out of his comfort zone (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally). That, and lots of sex where Dipper got to be as dominant as he needed … which was a just *such* a burden for Norman to bear. *Such* a burden.

Dipper would consider it the most amazing thing that, no matter how often they talked about the same insecurities, Norman never once showed his frustration; he really did help Dipper grow at his own pace.

They both had to learn that it was okay to occasionally need a break from the other—okay to take some personal time, either alone or with other friends. That it was, in fact, healthy for them individually and as a couple to not *always* be together. It actually made them enjoy their time together even more.

And they both had to learn to be open and honest with each other about their feelings and their desires.

And they both had to learn that it was okay to disagree.

And they both had to learn to be more open to new experiences—to be more adventurous.

And they both had to learn to make slight changes in their typical behavior so as to diminish the annoyances to the other. Like Dipper had to learn to do his laundry more often, and Norman had to learn to keep things more organized.

And more and more and more. Nothing big. Nothing major. Just … little things.

But while they did, they were endlessly learning new and delightful things about the other and themselves. It was always fresh and surprising and endlessly comedic for them. Like that Dipper loved pop songs from the 70s, or that Norman could quote *all* of “Parks and Rec”. Like that Dipper could tell what the weather would be like based on the smell of the wind, or that Norman’s favorite food was Pad Pra Ram. Like that Dipper always mispronounced the word “available”, or that Norman couldn’t whistle (and was sorta bitter about it). Like that they both found marionettes terrifying, or both preferred the taste of Diet Coke to regular Coca-Cola, or both wanted to go camping in all of America’s national parks, or both wanted a summer wedding in the mountains (which they eventually did have, at the Mystery Shack one month after completing their undergraduate degrees).

And more and more and more. Nothing big. Nothing major. Just … little things.

But those are often the most important things of all.


End file.
